


Lessons in Caring

by mothjons



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU no powers, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Canon Asexual Character, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jon has depression, Jon is an English teacher, Jon learns about healthy communication, Jon: this man has blood flow issues, M/M, Martin is a guidance counsellor, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn, Teacher AU, Teacher Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, jon is so oblivious i s2g, martin: blushes, short jon rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 72,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24392272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothjons/pseuds/mothjons
Summary: Jonathon Sims very much does not want to be working at the Magnus Academy as the new English teacher - but maybe Martin Blackwood, the schools Guidance counsellor, might be a silver lining to the whole thing ...
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 582
Kudos: 1168
Collections: Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist





	1. Fresh Start

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I really hope you enjoy reading this - I really enjoyed writing it! A few things to mention; I'm from Scotland, so our school system is slightly different than England. So if I got anything wrong - please let me know! Also I was listening to jazz covers of the Zelda soundtrack whilst writing most of this, so sorry if there's a smooth jazz vibe?
> 
> No beta, we die like kings
> 
> Edit: Okay, I'm gay so I did make a playlist for this fic - if you would like to check it out the link is: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0JCRkIR2JyQobrsqVXdPWq?si=-LrehQLvTsSJfkYhPQ9mVg

Jon felt strangely calm as he spelled out his name on the whiteboard before him.

Mr Sims, the board read. His lips found their way into a tight grimace. It felt wrong seeing his name against the decade old board, back-dropped against years of similar squiggles. He let out a heavy sigh, as he returned the marker to the cup on his desk. He looked out over what was now his new classroom – empty, due the early hour. It was a spacious enough room, but somehow felt too small for Jon. He had gotten far too acquainted with sprawling lecture halls, with rows upon rows of seats hosting faces he needn’t put names to. This room felt far too personal for his liking, despite lacking any essence of his character. It still held traces of the previous tenant – a woman called Gertrude Robinson, who had passed away a week prior. Her mark was left in cluttered and disorganised stacks of paper, an absence of clear labelling, and a sprawling mountain of unmarked essays – which Jon would be required to take up the mantel for. The room was decorated like most high school classrooms were: an anti-bullying poster here, a peeling strip of paint there and a miscellaneous brown stain against the ceiling.

He draped his jacket over the back of the squeaky computer chair that sat against his desk. He fell into it with a groan from both him and the chair. There was a mustiness to the room, that reminded Jon very much of his own high school days. It seemed wherever old books and teenagers met, mustiness ensued. He had opened the window when he had first entered, and the soft breeze that fluttered against his neck reminded him that Spring was coming. He felt almost content in that moment - that was, until, the school bell rang.

It seemed almost instantaneous, as an ocean of teenagers pooled through his door. A few made curious eye contact with him in acknowledgement of his presence, but most just passed by uninterested. The calm feeling before instantly dissipated, and he pulled himself, somewhat shakily, to his feet. He stood before the board, being careful not to obscure his name.

“Hello, my name is Mr Sims,” he stated firmly, hands clasped behind his back, using the pose as a method to hide his quivering hands. “I am your new English teacher - evidently.”

Twenty pairs of eyes stared back at him, unblinking and unwilling to respond. He watched them, as they watched him; taking in his meagre and bony frame, hidden under clothes that looked like they might have, at some point in his life, fit him - but now hung awkwardly on him. He worried one of the buttons of his cuffed sleeves, and took a tentative breath.

“I, ah, I previously taught English Literature at Oxford,” he said, as he continued to address the classroom. “So, I can hope that you all trust in me when I say that I feel I can confidently get you all through you GCSE exams – if not somewhat tooth and nail.”

He gave a weak and awkward laugh, and he rolled up onto the balls of his feet and back down in a rocking motion. “Any questions?”

There were a few shakes of the head, and a couple mumbled ‘no’s’. He nodded firmly, and clapped his hands together.

“As I was made to understand, Miss Robinson was going through Catcher in the Rye with your class. I was also made aware of an essay due regarding unreliable narration due this Friday.”

He looked over the crowd, looking for any acknowledgement that this was the case. After he was treated to a few weak nods, he continued, “However, due to the, uh, somewhat sudden passing of Miss Robinson – I am willing to extend that deadline to the following Monday.”

His initial anxiety at the thought of being stuck in a classroom with rowdy and obnoxious teenagers was now quickly transforming into a much deeper worry that these children would spend the next four months of the term with him in complete silence.

“So, can anybody tell me where the GCSE textbooks are?”

The first few periods of the day passed by in unremarkable succession. He was met with more reluctance to speak from older years, and an inability to not speak from the younger ones. By the time the lunch bell tolled, Jon found himself thoroughly exhausted. It wasn’t that describing the difference between verbs and adjectives was partially tiring, and hardly took up an excessive amount of brain power on his part, but the act of introducing himself to each new set of students had been surprising draining. He half debated bracing the staff room to take his lunch break in, and then quickly decided against it. If talking at people had depleted him this much, he didn’t much care to think of the exhaustion that would follow someone actually replying to him. Unfortunately, he was not awarded the luxury of avoiding this, as a sharp tap at his door alerted him to two new faces, a man and a woman. They were evidently teachers, taken only by the fact that they were not 16-year olds. Though, the relaxed dress code of the male figure left some room for doubt in Jon’s mind.

“Mr Sims,” cheered the man loudly, pointing towards the name on the board as he strutted confidently into the room. The woman followed suit, with a warm and welcoming smile on her face. Jon stumbled to his feet, and readjusted his shirt to ensure he looked presentable. He extended a hand for the two to take.

“Jonathon Sims,” he introduced. The man gave him a hearty shake, leaving the woman’s turn to feel quite timid in comparison.

“Tim Stoker,” said the man, with a beaming smile.

“I’m Sasha,” said the woman. “I’m up in history – just above your classroom, actually.”

Jon nodded, making a soft ‘oh’ sound in recognition, but mostly feeling very unaware of how to reply to that statement. Tim seemed to quickly pick up on Jon’s lost expression, “So, Jonathon –“

“Oh, please – Jon is fine,” Jon interjected.

“So, Jon,” corrected Tim, “we just wanted to take a chance to meet you, and see how you were settling in.”

“Oh?”

There was a moment of silence between the three. Jon blinked.

“So, how are you settling in?”

“Oh,” Jon repeated, stiffer this time. “Oh, I, ah, yes – I’m settling in well. I think.”

Sasha gave him another warm smile. She had a very lovely smile, Jon thought. Her face was round, with dimples in her cheeks, and her eyes had a mischievous sparkle to them that led Jon to believe that Tim wasn’t the only eccentric seeming one out of the duo. She looked like one of those teachers that you always wished to see on your timetable. Jon imagined that his own name would probably feel like a bad omen upon a timetable.

“You must be quite busy,” she guessed, and Jon gave an affirmative nod. “Gertrude wasn’t exactly famous around here for her organizational skills.”

Jon looked back over the stack of miscellaneous paperwork on his desk. He had hardly made a dent in it all day. “No, ah, it certainly seems that way.”

“Have you eaten yet?” asked Tim, cocking his head gently to the side in curiosity. “We were about to head down to the staffroom if you wanted to join. Meet some other faces around here?”

Jon was already shaking his head before he had even had time to properly digest his question. “No, ah, maybe another day. I’ve got quite a bit of work to catch up on.”

Tim clapped his hands together, and spun to face Sasha. “Well, I for one am starving – so, I will see you around Sims!”

“Goodbye, Jon,” called Sasha, as she followed Tim to the door. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Ah, yes, you too,” he responded with a respectful nod. Just like that, the door clicked shut, and Jon was alone.

“Finally,” he muttered, as he fell into his chair and got to work picking away at the pile before him.

When Jon fell into his apartment later that night, it was with aching bones and a headache to boot. He had found himself staying well past home-time that day, as he had been rather enraptured by solving the puzzle of what was Miss Robinson’s organizational disaster. He dropped his rucksack to the floor at his feet, the keychains that dangled from it hitting the floor with a clink. His coat returned to its home on the rack. He noted the familiar pink scarf that was draped across it, and he could make out the sounds of its owner from the kitchen, pottering away against the soft hum of the radio.

“Hey, Georgie,” he called, as he made his way over to where his roommate was preparing herself dinner. It was a small room, with a single countertop pressed against an incredibly dated looking oven. The fridge hummed steadily in the corner, plastered with postcards addressed to Georgie, and a couple of post it notes regarding milk. Jon hung back in the doorway, aware that the room tended to feel cramped enough with one person.

“Jon,” she smiled, as she turned to face him and away from the pot that was contentedly bubbling on the stove. “How was your first day?”

Jon sighed, and fell back against the doorframe. “It was – it was fine.”

“Ah,” she hummed, “spoken will all the true eloquence of an English teacher.”

“It was remarkably unremarkable,” he tried instead. “Adequately adequate.”

“It’s like speaking to a human thesaurus,” she laughed, as she begun to stir the pot. It smelt delicious, whatever it was, and Jon found himself leaning over to make out the contents of the pot. Georgie took note of his keen eyes, and directed her spatula towards him, “I made extra – if you want some?”

Jon felt his stomach rumble in response – he had forgone lunch earlier, too wrapped up in work to have paid mind to the cries of his hungry stomach.

He nodded. "Yes, that sounds quite nice – thank you.”

“It’ll be ready soon - do you mind getting some bowls out?”

Jon did as asked, and placed two mismatched ceramic bowls next to her on the countertop, alongside a serving utensil for what Jon has sussed out to be curry.

“I got some nice wine as well,” she added, “thought we could celebrate?”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Celebrate what exactly?”

“New job? Fresh start?” she listed. “This is a good thing, Jon.”

He made a small sound of disagreement, but was silenced with a stern look from George. She wasn’t much bigger than Jon, but managed to carry herself with a lot more weight than he did, and he wasn’t entirely ashamed to admit that she could be quite scary when she wanted to.

She turned back to task at hand, and made prompt work of serving up two steaming bowls of Thai red curry. She offered Jon a bowl, which he quickly accepted, and headed over to the dining table pressed into the corner of the living room. It was a cosy room, dressed in warm reds and oranges. Georgie had taken over decorating – Jon hardly had an artistic eye, and thought that the act of putting any effort into interior design was moot. It wasn’t as if a framed art piece would have any impact on his day to day routine. Georgie hadn’t understood that point of view, and argued that a home was meant to be a place of comfort, not some desolate show room.

Georgie followed him through, alongside a slim bottle of red wine. She eased the cork from the bottle with the same flare of popping champagne, sans the satisfying sound.

“To your new job!” she cheered, as she poured him a generous glass. Jon watched the red liquid flow into his glass, and he felt a sort of sad smile form on his face. There was a part of him that genuinely and greatly appreciated Georgie’s generosity and kindness in that moment – but a larger part of him wished that she didn’t bother. He didn’t need her addressing this – or maybe he just didn’t want to be reminded of it any more than necessary.

“To my new job,” he lamented, and took a hearty swig.

Jon decided to head into school early that morning. He wanted to get more acquainted with his new classroom, and by what he had gathered yesterday, Miss Robinson had left the place in disorganised chaos. The building was empty as he stepped over into the threshold. It felt sort of funny being there when it looked so desolate. It brought him back to his own high school days, wandering through empty corridors after being shooed out of the library by a tired member of staff. It wasn’t so much that he had enjoyed school, but more that he just enjoyed being away from his home. He had loved his grandmother, in an innate way that follows all familial relationships, but he loved being away from her more. When she had passed, he didn’t feel sad, but rather had been left with an emotion that should have been sad but was just empty. Friends, or more accurately, colleagues, had apologised for his loss – but it just left him wondering what exactly it was he had lost. He hadn’t lost warmth or comfort, nor a protector or guardian. Just someone he had lived with for a portion of his life. Had he really not developed any form of sentimentality towards her?

Any answer he might have given was knocked from his mind as a large figure suddenly barrelled into him. The sensation of force quickly gave away to the sensation of burning, and Jon leapt back with a sharp yelp.

“I am so sorry! Are you Okay? – ah, god, I am so sorry,” the assailant said, with wide and fearful eyes. He was holding a, now empty, teal mug, and holding out his free hand against Jon to assess the damage.

“For god sake! Would you look where you’re going?” Jon snapped back, pushing the other man’s hand away. He didn’t afford much time to that fact that he himself had not been paying much attention to his surroundings. “Christ! It’s all down my shirt.”

“I really am so sorry!” The attacker defended. “It’s usually dead here at this hour, I wasn’t expecting to see anyone.”

“Yeah, well it never hurts to use your eyes,” Jon bit back, as he untucked his shirt to better assess the damage. He muttered some foul words under his breath. The other man still stood in front him, awkwardly clasping his cup and looking incredibly sheepish.

“I, uh, I have a spare shirt,” admitted the figure. Jon looked at him with an incredulous expression. “It’s just in my office,” he continued, “It’s my gym bag – but better than nothing?”

Jon pulled a face. The other man’s eyes widened - more so, somehow.

“No, no – no, it’s clean! I promise,” he spluttered out. “I had planned to go to the gym after work, uh – a few years ago. Well, that didn’t happen,” he gestured to himself with a self-depreciating laugh, “So I can promise you it’s clean.”

Jon wanted very little to wear this bumbling idiot’s clothing, but alas. The coffee was beginning to soak through into his skin, and it was painfully sticky. “I suppose I don’t really have a choice here.”

The man gave a strained laugh, and then gestured for Jon to follow. “You’re, uh – you’re Jon, right? The new English teacher?”

“Apparently,” Jon sighed.

“Ah, well – welcome!” he said with a smile. “Some first impression, huh? I’m, uh, I’m Martin – I’m one of the guidance counsellors.”

Jon gave a curt “hmm” in response. He was tired, and wet, and burnt – and did not much care for making idle conversation with a man he very much hoped to never see again. The coldness of his reply seemed to be lost on this Martin, as he continued to babble on, not deterred by Jon’s disinterest.

“I know this place is a little rough around the edges, but it’s a good school – honestly. The kids ... the kids are good kids,” he said, as he led Jon up a set of stairs with an arrow reading ‘Guidance’. “You’ll get used to it in no time.”

The room was roughly the size of Jon’s classroom, with four sets of desks sitting in a square formation. Each desk had a name taped to, and Jon was led over to the one crudely marked ‘Mr Blackwood’. The desk very much looked like how Martin talked; cluttered, colourful and chaotic. Half the desk was taken up by various stacks of paperwork, and the surfaces that were free of that were filed with colourful post-it notes with affirmative phrases on them. A few succulents made their home on the filing cabinet behind him, as well as a framed portrait of Martin standing next to a firm looking older woman. She had the same eyes as Martin, but did not share the warm smile he was giving in the photo.

Martin gave a small grunt, as he leant down underneath his desk and threw his hand about wildly until it landed on soft canvas, and he pulled the bag out with a triumphant cheer. He retrieved the aforementioned shirt, and thrusted it towards Jon.

Jon gingerly reached out to take it. “Ah, thank you, Martin.”

“I mean, don’t be thankful – it really is the least I can do after ruining your lovely shirt,” Martin said with a soft chuckle.

“It’s Marks and Spencer’s basics, I think _lovely_ might be slightly overkill,” Jon retorted bluntly. He unfurled the crumpled garment out in front of him, and could quickly tell that it would swamp him. A black tick emboldened the front of the shirt, with the lettering ‘do it later’ plastered across it.

“Well, lovely, yes – just that you _looked_ lovely in it. Uh, I mean, I’m sure you’ll look lovely in that, too, sorry it’s a bit wrinkled –“

“Anyway,” Jon interjected, clearing his throat. “Thank you for the shirt. And Martin –“

“Yes?”

“Watch where you’re going next time.”

He got changed in the toilet cubicle. He peeled the damp, and stained shirt off of his body, and discarded it on the floor. It was going to need a deep clean anyway, a few bathroom germs were hardly going to be the end-all of the shirt. He tore a few sheets of tissue paper away and dabbed away the stickiness away from his torso.

“Christ,” he muttered to the emptiness. Once he was successfully dried, he lifted Martin’s shirt off the hanger he had placed it upon. He held it up in front of him for a moment, and then took a cautious sniff of the shirt. It smelt clean; it certainly didn’t smell like it had been through vigorous exercise. It actually smelled quite nice. Jon never bothered investing in a nice smelling detergent, Tesco’s own brand was cheaper and as long as his clothes were clean, that was all that mattered. He pulled it over his head. His previous assessment had been correct – the thing was massive on him. He exited the stall, and greeted his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked like a little kid playing dress up with their parents’ clothes. A very tired looking kid. His dark hair fell limply around his face, the bold streak of grey cutting up the darkness. He fingered the hair tie around his wrist, and promptly pulled his hair back into a low ponytail.

“Better,” he hummed to his reflection. Now, if only he had a metaphorical hair tie for his eyebags.


	2. Antony and Cleopatra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So where do I come into this – this fundraiser?” asked Jon, crossing his arms against his chest.  
> Tim grinned deviously. “It is somewhat a rite of passage for teachers here to man the concessions stand at these events –“  
> Jon’s face fell, and he let out a small groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, age 18, sitting my advanced higher english exam: this is so pointless, when will I ever need to use Shakespeare quotes again in my life  
> Me, age 20, writing fanfiction for a horror podcast: oh yeah, it's all coming together now 
> 
> Heya! I planned to post this a bit later on ... but I have very poor self control - so enjoy! Also thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos on the first chapter, it really means a lot xx

“Now, who can tell me what Mark Antony meant when he said ‘‘My sword, made weak by affection’?” Jon asked the class, as he carefully leant against his desk, glasses poised against the tip of his nose. In his hand he was holding a copy of Shakespeare’s ‘Antony and Cleopatra’. Students sat before him, in pairs, sharing their own copy between them. None of them seemed keen to respond.

“Anyone?” he tried again. Silence. “Okay, well – Mr, uh, Mr Stevens. What do you think he meant by that?”

Adam Stevens looked up from his copy of the text with a death glare, he sighed, and leant back in his chair. “S’not as good at fighting cause he’s distracted by Cleopatra.”

“A less than eloquent way of phrasing it, but essentially,” Jon remarked. “Would you say this quote shows some contrast to his previous characterisation seen in ‘Julius Caesar’? I am aware you were studying that before starting this text.”

Adam shrugged weakly. He didn’t have the energy to attempt to fight for more enthusiasm out of the kid. He quickly took a glance at his watch, and clapped his book shut and placed it behind him. A few students, also becoming aware of the time, were beginning to slip notebooks and jotters into their rucksacks.

“Good work today, class,” he concluded. “Reminder that your essays on ‘to what extent the suggestion that the downfall of tragic heroes is in part due to arrogance’ are due this time next week!”

A few mumbles welcomed the shrill sound of the bell, and quickly the students turned into a singular stampede as they fought their way to the door. The sea of children faded away to reveal the figure of Elias Bouchard standing at his door. He was a tall, slender and clean-cut man; with dark blonde hair pushed neatly aware from his face. He was devoid of any greying, but the lines around his eyes suggested that he was coming along in the years. He was dressed in a well fitted suit, with a slim purple silken tie strapped tightly around his neck. Jon didn’t know if it was the smug expression that always graced the mans face, or his clear obsession with personal grooming, but he found the man incredibly draining, and he felt his shoulders sag as he made his presence known.

“I don’t recall it being a dress-down day,” mused Elias as he entered into Jon’s classroom. “I’m aware we aren’t Oxford, but this is a place of Academia, and appropriate attire is required. Not to mention, I feel that slogan might give the wrong idea to some of our students.”

Jon all but glowered in response, and he lowered his gaze coldly. “Then I suggest you have a word with some of your staff regarding their lack of depth perception - Mr Blackwood for one certainly seems to be lacking a competent pair of eyes.”

For extra emphasis, he shoved a hand over in the direction of his sodden shirt that was hanging up on the radiator.

Elias smirked. “Ah, yes, Mr Blackwood. He has his moments, I assure you.”

Jon thought back to the spluttering mess he had met earlier, and scoffed. “I feel I may have to take your word on that, as I failed to see any.”

Elias chuckled mirthlessly. “Well, I came here to see how you were fitting in – very happy to see that you’re making fast friends with other members of staff.”

“I hardly think that’s necessary,” he grumbled, fingering a pen that lay abandoned on his desk.

“Jon,” said Elias warningly.

Jon straightened out his jaw, he knew he was acting childish – not be mention extremely petty by tattling on one of his co-workers; to his boss, of all people. He looked up at Elias, and attempted to offer him a more positive expression.

“Hm, well – thank you,” he said, being careful not to spit the words out. He didn’t know why he found it so hard to act pleasant around the man – he reeked of fine dining, and Conservative luncheons, and all the pretentious upper-class things Jon had come to hate through his years at Oxford. But he was hardly the most down-to-earth person to be around, either. Maybe, in a funny way, Jon disliked the man simply because he had hired him.

“I appreciate you coming to check in on me,” he continued, “But, I am fine.”

Elias nodded, and smiled in a sickly-sweet fashion. He clapped his hands together in a sense of finality.

“Well, do let me know if you need anything.”

Jon nodded affirmative, and Elias Bouchard exited the room with a small two fingered wave. If he never spoke to the man again, it would be too soon.

He had picked a trolley with a squeaky wheel. He would’ve turned back to replace it, had a large family not just entered, blocking the exit. He sighed; it was probably karma. Karma for which thing, he didn’t care to ponder. Fate had a large selection of things to throw back at him. He exhaled a curt puff of air, and placed his bags into the child seat of his trolley. The straps dangled down and brushed against his legs as he made his way through the maze of aisles. Fluorescent lighting shone down on garish bright red signs, advertising 2-for-1 offers and other various deals that Jon would most likely pay no mind to. It wasn’t as if he splurged on fancy goods on his weekly shop, and his total never tended to surpass £20.

He found himself subconsciously grabbing familiar boxes and tins; things that he knew were quick enough to cook, and nutritional enough as to not kill him. He hardly needed the extra help into the grave. It was funny, he actually enjoyed cooking – always had. His grandmother had made a big deal out of teaching him, and when he turned 14, and the two had taken it in turns to cook for one another. But, nowadays, it just felt so difficult to invest more than 10 minutes into a meal. It all tasted the same anyway - whether it was tinned soup, or Georgie’s famous ratatouille. He floated through the store, finding his way to the cleaning aisle. He remembered he needed more detergent.

His hand automatically went towards the cheap 2l bottle of Tesco-own detergent, but found himself stopping. He pressed his nose into his shoulder and gave a gentle sniff – what was that? Orange blossom? It was pleasant, and admittedly, quite relaxing. Maybe he would ask Martin next time he saw him. No- he dismissed that thought quickly, of course he wouldn’t. He settled on a pastel purple bottle, that was meant to smell like Lavender and Ylang Ylang. It didn’t sound entirely unpleasant.

The cashier and he worked in monotonous tandem, as he handed her items and she scanned them, looking blankly ahead the whole time. He felt for her – he had worked his fair share of mundane customer service jobs, and he would argue that dealing with the general public was one of the reasons for his premature greying. They exchanged scripted farewells, and he begun to make his way home.

The sound of his keys hitting the bowl alerted Georgie to his presence. She was lounging on the couch, and twisted her neck around to face him. Her long hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and she was already in pyjamas. She looked like she might’ve been dosing off when Jon entered, and he felt a pang of guilt for disturbing her. He knew that she slept almost as badly as he did.

“Hey, Jon,” she greeted. She pointed towards his shirt, “nice threads.”

“Ha-ha,” he responded sarcastically, hanging up his coat, and dropping his rucksack. He held up the plastic carrier bag that he had thrown his sodden shirt into, “I had an unfortunate run in with another member of staff.”

Georgie nodded understandingly. “Oh - I’m sure you were very forgiving.”

Jon felt his face heat up. “I – Uh, I mean, it took me by surprise. I, uh, I may have been a teensy bit too harsh.”

She laughed. “You’ve been there two days and have already managed to emotionally scar your co-workers – new record.” She mimed ringing an invisible bell.

“Well, he physically scared me!” Jon shot back as he made his way into the kitchen, and began to unload his shopping. He could hear the couch springs relax as Georgie made her way over to his side, and rested casually against the countertop. He handed her a can of tinned beans, “Give me a hand.”

She accepted it, but made a ‘tsk’ sound as she did so. “Jon – I am so sorry. Did you know 8 out of 10 workplace accidents are due to lukewarm coffee?”

Jon shot her a glare as he stacked new tins upon old. Why did he have so many beans? He didn’t even like beans that much.

“Jon …” she said slowly and tentatively.

“Georgie …” he responded in a flat manner.

“Do you think you need to go and apologise to this man?”

Jon sighed. He knew Georgie was right – when wasn’t she? “Potentially.”

She squeezed his shoulders. “Perfect! I’m watching Love Island, if you want to sit with me and pretend not to enjoy it, you are very much welcome to join.”

She skittered back to her place on the couch, and Jon finished stacking with a small smile on his face. He opened the fridge to put away the few fresh ingredients he had purchased, and then made his way through into the living room, and fell beside Georgie. She instinctively dropped onto her side, and placed her legs in his lap. He slumped lower into the couch, letting his head loll lazily against a woollen pillow. On the screen, scantily glad 20 years gossiped and bitched against a tropical background. Georgie offered her own personal commentary as the show played on – Jon found he much preferred her insight over whatever the cast was saying. As the night continued, the images found themselves slowly blurring until they faded in darkness, and Jon fell into a peaceful respite.

“Mr Sims?” A voice said in front of him. Jon’s head shot up from the book he was reading on his desk, and his gaze fell onto Eve Booth, one of his A-Level students. The school day had ended a few minutes ago, and the classroom was now desolate minus the two.

“Ah, Miss Booth,” he said, folding over the corner of the page he was on, and shutting his book. “Is everything okay?”

“Um, I was wondering if I could possibly get an extension on my personal piece?” She was looking above Jon, and wringing her thumb between her hands.

Jon removed his glasses, and leant back in his chair. “What’s your excuse?”

Her eyes fell quickly to the floor, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve just - it’s just I’ve been finding it a bit difficult at the moment.”

“If you’ve been struggling, then I might suggest in the future you come talk to me sooner – the deadline is tomorrow, Miss Booth,” he stated sternly. He regretted his tone as soon as the words fell out, as Eve’s eyes turned misty, and she quickly blinked the moisture away. Jon worried his bottom lip between his teeth. She looked incredibly tired, and Jon didn’t have to look far to see his own gaunt and fatigued face reflected in hers.

“I’ll give you a few more days,” he sighed. He tried to look upon her with an earnest and caring expression, and he hoped she knew he meant well as he continued to speak, “But in the future, please come talk to me before. I won’t always be able to offer extensions.”

“Thank you, sir,” she croaked. “A few days is all I need.”

Jon nodded, almost solemnly. He didn’t know what else to give the girl – he wasn’t particularly good at advice, and besides, he wasn’t even aware if that was an appropriate thing for him to offer.

“Eve,” he spoke suddenly, “my, uh, my Grandmother used to go over a breathing exercise with me called bhramari pranayama; it’s, uh – it’s supposed to help you get to sleep easier. I might suggest you look into it.”

“Oh,” she replied, looking a little surprised. “Oh, thank you – I’ll, uh, yeah, I’ll look into it.”

They both knew she wouldn’t.

He was making his way over to the main exit when a familiar voice shouted out.

“Jon!” Tim cried. Jon spun around the face the man who was now bounding over to him from the auditorium. He was flushed pink, and slick with sweat, dressed in a loose black t-shirt and basketball shorts.

“Oh, Tim?” Jon spluttered, surprised to see the other man. “I didn’t think you would still be here.”

“I run the basketball club on Wednesday,” he explained. “I’ve actually been meaning to come find you.”

“Oh?”

“The school is hosting a dance – it’s an annual thing, a fundraiser of sorts. Just to help out with future trips and extra materials,” Tim informed, as he gesticulated enthusiastically with his hands.

“You would think the government would supply appropriate funding for that kind of thing.”

“Yeah, you would,” said Tim, wrinkling his nose. “But alas, we have spent the last 10 years under Tory rule; so, we have to rely more on the generosity of parents than the competence of our government.”

“So where do I come into this – this fundraiser?” asked Jon, crossing his arms against his chest.

Tim grinned deviously. “It is somewhat a rite of passage for teachers here to man the concessions stand at these events –“

Jon’s face fell, and he let out a small groan.

“- Yeah, that’s usually the common response. … Oh – before I forget, Martin Blackwood, one of the guidance counsellors, is going to be working the stand with you. Have you met him?”

Jon’s expression managed to sour even further, he gave a terse nod in response, lips tight.

“It’ll be fun!” argued Tim. “And you’re allowed to nick a few packets of crisps for yourself.”

“Well, gee, I can’t say no now, can I?”

“Never could, Sims,” he sang, looking a tad too pleased with himself for Jon’s liking.

“So, what? I just sell Tesco branded crisps for four times the retail price, and charge fifteen-year olds for weak blackcurrant squash?”

“Have you done this before?” he asked teasingly.

“I was a teenager once,” he retorted, hands now on his hips. “I have a vague idea of how these things tend to run.”

Tim looked mildly nonplussed, and nodded in contemplation. “Interesting – you definitely have the vibe of someone who came out of the womb at the ripe old age of forty -”

“Thirty.”

“Huh?”

“I’m thirty, not forty,” Jon sighed, giving Tim a blank look. Tim’s eyes drifted over to the grey streak that ran down the left side of his hair. Jon pushed it behind his ear self-consciously, “I, uh, had a rough few years.”

“Life of crime I assume. Don’t worry, Sims, your secret is safe with me,” he said with an exaggerated wink. Jon’s nose wrinkled in an automated prickled response

“Right,” said Jon, as he readjusted his rucksack against him, “I should probably get going.”

“I’ll email you the details!” Tim called after him as he briskly made his exit.

God, he was going to kill Tim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for lack of Martin this chapter! the next chapter will have a lot of Martin :D  
> As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! Chapter 3 will be up a bit later - just so I have enough time to write the later chapters; I've got the next 3 or so finished.  
> Also - I'm on tumblr at Buccata!  
> See you next time xx


	3. Golden Wonders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “-No, I can, ah, I can be a little bit of an, uh –“  
> “An asshole?” Martin offered quickly. His eyes widened suddenly. “I didn’t mean –“  
> Jon reddened and nodded his head. “No, you’re right. That was more or less how my roommate put it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope you are all okay after ep 169 that was ... something  
> Also, to everyone who left comments and kudos on the last two chapters, you own my entire heart - thank you so much!  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy chapter 3!!! xx

**To:[JSims@Mag.ac.uk](mailto:JSims@Mag.ac.uk)**

**From:[TStoker@Mag.ac.uk](mailto:TStoker@Mag.ac.uk)**

**Subject: Big Summer Blowout**

**Heya Jon,**

**As per our last conversation, regarding the Fundraiser event, I was just emailing to check that you were still available this Friday?**

**Sike, you have no choice, be there or be square, Sims. It starts at 7pm, but you and Martin will need to set up the table – so 6pm good for you??? Great!**

**See you there,**

**Tim Stoker, Department Head of Physical Education**

**p.s please don’t wear pajamas to this like you did the other day. I’m all for sticking it to the man, and by the man I mean Elias Douchard, but some of these parents are kinda dicks … do it 4 me**

Jon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a deep sigh. It had been a few days since Tim had cornered him, and there was a small and naïve part of him that hoped he may have forgotten. His hands fell upon the keys, and he began to type out an appropriate response.

**To:[TStoker@mag.ac.uk](mailto:TStoker@mag.ac.uk)**

**From:[JSims@Mag.ac.uk](mailto:JSims@Mag.ac.uk)**

**RE: Big Summer Blow Out**

**Hello Tim,**

**6pm is fine.**

**Regards,**

**Jonathon Sims**

He hit send, and then closed his laptop with a little bit more force than required. He tossed it to the side of him, where he lay in his bed. It was a fairly early night, especially compared to his usual sleep schedule which tended to chock up to napping when appropriate. He had been re-reading 1984 when he had heard the notification. He hadn’t minded the distraction; the text was dreadfully dire and did little to better the sour mood he had been carrying all week. It was required reading for one of his A-level classes, and he had figured that a lesson taught by a man who had skimmed through it at age eighteen would not help come exam season. He had a notebook to the side of him, and he had been making notes of specific quotes, and analysis. It was quite enjoyable, to be honest, and it reminded him of why he went into this field in the first place. Textual analysis felt very human to Jon – taking someone else’s words and looking deeper into the hidden messages, solving the clues of foreshadowing and pointing out parallels between paragraphs. It felt like detective work into the human soul. What secret message was the author desperately trying to get across to you?

There was something about solving it that always made the text seem more personal, like it was a secret between the reader and the writer. Jon found his love for analysis grow strongest for old texts; authors long passed, whispering secrets to him in the dead of the night. It always made him feel like he knew them. Like old friends, somehow. He laughed into the empty room. It was that kind of flouncy thinking that had landed him his position at Oxford – he had shown real heart for the subject. He had never lost it, just sort of drifted from it.

‘THE IMPORTANCE OF UNDERSTANDING EROS’ wrote out Jon, finishing with an underlined flourish.

“Who can tell me what Eros was the god of in Greek mythology?” He asked, spinning around to face the class, and gently drumming the marker against the palm of his hand.

A few students cautiously raised their hands. He gestured to one with the pen.

“Love?” tried a student that Jon was almost certain was called David.

“Yes, exactly – or more famously known as Cupid,” he pointed out. “Now, what kind of significance do you think having a God of love in ‘Antony and Cleopatra’ plays?”

Again, a few weak hands find themselves in the air. He quickly picked out one of the hands, sitting at the back, that belonged to a girl with short cropped hair and rectangular glasses.

“Antony asks Eros to kill him, so it’s kinda like love killed him,” the girl surmised. “Cause Antony wants to die cause he thinks that Cleopatra died, and, uh – yeah.”

“But Eros doesn’t kill him” chimed in another student. “Antony tries to kill himself and goofs it.”

Jon wondered what Shakespeare would’ve thought of the attempted suicide of Antony being referred to as ‘goofing it’, and then wagered that Shakespeare probably wouldn’t have known what goof meant – and besides, he probably would’ve been far more taken with the fact that his texts were still being enjoyed to pay much mind to blasé analysis. He shook his head – he was getting off topic.

“Could the failure of Eros to act on Antony’s wishes to kill him show that it wasn’t love that was his downfall, but rather his rash character?” prompted Jon, trying to bring both him and his class back on track. “Or could it be his desire for honour that caused him to seek out death so quickly? In Julius Caesar, we see that his character is mostly defined by honour.”

There were a few murmurs of agreement amongst the class, and Jon noted a few of the students were quickly jotting down what he was saying. He smiled – it was a pleasant change from their nonchalant attitude earlier in the week. They weren’t 100% confident in his presence yet, but Jon felt like it was slowly getting there.

“I hope to see a few good quotes from both texts in you essays –“

He was cut off by a sudden knock on the door, and he turned his head quickly to see Martin, one hand on the door handle, holding it half open, and the other pressed softly against the wood.

“Hiya,” he said, with a smile, “I’m just here to get Emily.”

A noise sounded from the back of the room, and Jon saw a girl who must’ve been Emily quickly shove her jotters into her rucksack.

“We’re actually in the middle of something,” said Jon firmly, raising a stern eyebrow in Martin’s direction.

A short flash of annoyance washed over Martin’s face, and he tightened his expression. “I sent you an email about it the other day – did you not get it?”

Jon did not want to admit that he had been inadvertently avoiding his inbox for the past few days.

Martin didn’t seem to want to wait for an excuse. “It’s a biweekly appointment,” he said bluntly, and then turned his focus to Emily, who was standing sheepishly behind her desk, clutching her bag. “You ready, Emily?”

She quickly darted over to Martin, weaving through the rows of tables, and slipped through the door being held open by Martin. Jon swore he saw Martin roll his eyes as he closed the door behind him. Jon’s jaw felt uncomfortably tight, and he coughed a few times to clear the odd lump that had formed in his throat. He clapped his hands together, and looked over his class, who thankfully, did not seem to pick up on his flustered state.

“Right,” he said, almost hesitantly, “there are many interpretations one can take from Eros character in the play, and I thoroughly suggest you go through his lines and take notes.”

Was he shaking?

“His quotes are quite short in comparison to other characters, and should make for some easy marks in your exams.”

He began to walk over to his computer, and leant down on his desk as he pulled up a new tab – the smart board at the head of the room mirrored this as he pulled up a short Youtube video.

“Okay, we’re going to be watching the National Theatre’s take on the scene – note taking is required.”

He fell into his seat as he hit play, and the scene commenced. He watched the small figures dance across his screen, exchanging prose and motions. His hand fell against his chest, and he pushed against his shirt as if attempting to massage the tension that had somehow found their way into his lungs and swallowed down the taste of bile that lingered on his tongue.

_Just watch the scene, Sims._

The school canteen seemed very empty without the shouts and cries of the students. It wasn’t completely devoid of life, though. A few of the other teachers were busy pottering around, pinning banners to the wall and plastering posters advertising the event on the doors outlining the room. Jon mused that it seemed like a pretty pointless task – if people were going to be there tonight it would be due to already holding prior knowledge of the event, there was no point in promoting it further. It didn’t matter – and besides, the woman seemed happy enough with her blob of blue tack and stack of papers. Far be it for Jon to deprive her of such a task by introducing the concept of critical thinking to her.

Most of the plastic dining tables had been folded up and pushed to the side of the room. A few still lay out, ready to be lined with snacks and beverages. His eyes follow the row of tables to see, at the back of the room, Martin Blackwood. Beside him towered numerous boxes each with the ‘Golden Wonder’ logo plastered across them. He was making busy work of decanting the crisps into plastic milk crates that lined the table. He looked rather content with the mindless task. Jon thought back to their earlier encounter and felt a sharp pang of guilt. He was definitely racking up bad karma points when it came to Martin Jon let out a heavy sigh, and made his way over to his station.

Jon cleared his throat as he approached.

Martin looked up with a surprised expression. “Jon? Ah, hello.”

“Hello, Martin,” he responded with a stiff nod. “I’m, uh, I’m with you today – for this thing.”

Martin’s eyes went wide, and he froze slightly. “Oh, really?”

“Did Tim not mention it to you?” Jon asked hesitantly.

Martin made a humming sound, and bobbed his head in acknowledgment. “Ah, yes, Tim – of course. Yes, he mentioned it to me.”

Jon wasn’t convinced. He raised an eyebrow in obvious doubt. “Right, uh, well – what do you, uh, what do you need me to do?”

Martin leant down beneath the table, and pulled out two plastic jugs. He used them to gesture towards a door to their right. “Well, we need these filled up with water. The kitchen is just through there. I would do it, but, ah, I wouldn’t want to risk spilling anymore liquid on you.”

He gave an awkward laugh, and Jon felt his face flush in embarrassment.

He quickly took the jugs from Martin’s hands. “Right, well, I’ll go do that. I’ll do that.”

He scuttled over to the direction of the kitchen, and pushed through the traffic doors. The smell of home baking and cleaning supplies mingled in the air, scents left from decades of work. He imagined that 100 year from now this room would still smell of dry vanilla cake and bleach. He scrunched his nose up in a show of unpleasantness. The sink was directly to the left of him. Peeling PPE stickers were plastered to the mouldy tiling that it was pressed against. He wondered what self-respecting adult needed the reminder to wash their own hands. He sighed out into the sterile room, and placed one of the jugs on the counter and turned the tap on. It took a few seconds to run cold, and the water pressure left something to be desired.

Jon was a little embarrassed to admit that he was incapable of carrying both full jugs together. It was _not_ because he had the upper body strength of a gangly baby, but only because he did not want to risk any spillage. Between his initial absence, Tim had appeared, and he gave Jon a hearty smile when he saw him.

“Jon, you came! Wonderful,” he cried, patting him on the back. “You and Martin are going to make such a good team!”

If Jon was giving Tim a death glare, it was nothing compared to the daggers being shot by Martin. God, Jon had made a much worse first impression than he’d realised. Tim looked between the two of them, taking in each individual scowl, and nodding enthusiastically.

“Team concessions!” he exclaimed, “Can I get a whoop?”

“I should get the other jug,” muttered Jon, quickly turning his way back to the kitchen.

“Funny way to pronounce Whoop – hey, ow!” Tim had been cut of by the sound of a soft slap. Jon craned his neck around to see Tim dramatically rubbing at his arm, whilst Martin said something too quiet to make out. He didn’t really care to decipher it.

“Look, I did you a favour –“ Tim was saying as Jon returned.

“Hi Jon!” Martin said loudly, suddenly seeing him standing there and promptly cutting off Tim. “Do you want to set up some cups?”

Tim jumped a little, and spun around to face Jon, pressing stiffly against Martin. He had an expression akin to a child that’s been up to no good. Jon suddenly felt very self-conscious. He looked between the two and fought back a sigh – he had been making quite a habit of it these days.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Jon replied, making his way round the table to where the stacks of paper cups lay limply on the table.

“Well,” announced Tim, “I better be off. I need to practice my disapproving look in case any of the kids get too rowdy tonight. Have fun you two!”

With a wink, he was off, leaving Jon and Martin in uncomfortable silence.

“Uh, sorry about him,” Martin said. “He can be a bit much if you’re not used to it.”

“Oh, uh, that’s okay?” Jon reassured, as he split the cups from their stack and got to work gently lining them up in front of him.

“These things really aren’t as bad as they seem,” said Martin. “They’re over pretty fast, anyway. Don’t worry, you won’t be stuck with me forever!”

He gave another awkward laugh, his gaze fixated on his task at hand. Jon worried his lip. He had a very clear vision of Georgie standing in front of him and aggressively jabbing a finger towards Martin, whilst shouting at him to apologise. He mentally shooed her away, but he knew she was right – and he knew doubly that she would kill him if she found out he had been given ample time to apologise and not taken advantage of it.

“Uh, Martin?”

“Hm?”

“I, ah – I would like to apologise.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Jon continued, feeling suddenly very vulnerable. “I, ah, well, I may have been a bit too harsh on you. It was just an accident.”

Martin nodded, as if he were pondering Jon’s statement. “Well, I forgive you? You really didn’t need to apologise –“

“-No, I can, ah, I can be a little bit of an, uh –“

“An asshole?” Martin offered quickly. His eyes widened suddenly. “I didn’t mean –“

Jon reddened and nodded his head. “No, you’re right. That was more or less how my roommate put it.”

“Ah,” Martin chuckled, “she bully you into an apology?”

“She didn’t bully me,” he snapped quickly, then took a breath and loosened his shoulders. “She didn’t bully me,” he repeated, softer this time. “She may have just pointed out that I have a tendency to be a bit, uh, well a bit of a dick?”

Martin laughed. It was different to how he had laughed before, it sounded a lot easier and there was no awkwardness to it. He had quite a nice laugh, Jon found himself thinking.

“Well, thank you, Jon – and I am still sorry about your shirt.”

“I lied, before,” he admitted. “It wasn’t from Mark’s and Spencer’s - I stole it from my roommate, she was chucking it out.”

“Oh?” quizzed Martin. “That’s a very nice shirt to chuck.”

Jon sighed. “Yeah, well it was too small for her.”

He looked over to Martin, who was biting down a huge grin and deliberately avoiding eye contact.

“What?” he deflected, brows furrowing. “You can’t _laugh_ – we aren’t all giants like you!”

“I’m not!” He lied, shoulders shaking slightly with forced down laughter. “And I’m not a giant - I’m like 6’2 … max.”

“Point in case – giant,” he said, gesturing to all of Martin.

“Okay, fine, fine,” he surrendered. A beat passed between the two. Martin was still wearing an amused smirk. Jon squinted his eyes at him, but decided against further confrontation. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, and fell back against the wall that backdropped them. He hated to admit that already felt rather fatigued merely from standing.

“So, uh, how are your classes going?” asked Martin, who was looking out across the room, and fiddling with one of the milk crates.

“Classes are fine,” replied Jon. “How is, uh, how is guidance?”

Martin turned his head slightly to face him and pulled a face. “I think half the students have crippling depression, so not great in all honesty.”

Jon nodded. “No, I can’t imagine that’s a good thing. God, I feel bad about assigning ‘1984’ to my GCSE class now.”

“A wonderfully cheerful novel about corrupt governments! Good thing that doesn’t apply to our lives, huh?” Martin responded with a cheeky glint in his eye.

“Blame the examination board,” Jon replied dryly, but with an amused expression on his face. “It was either that or ‘Far from the Madding Crowd’, and I cannot bring myself to read that again. Thomas Hardy will not shut up about trees. We get it! There are trees and mountains in Britain, move on.”

“I actually quite liked it,” Martin mused. “Thought it was quite poetic.”

Jon scoffed. “Hmm, you seem the type.”

Martin turned his body in full to face him, pressing his side against the table and raising a disapproving eyebrow. Jon sighed in resignation.

“Right, right – not being an asshole,” he declared, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

The hall was beginning to liven up the “party-goers” made their way through the canteen and into the main hall. Low quality pop music from a distant speaker began to sound – it wasn’t any tune Jon could say he recognised, but he doubted his tastes really went hand in hand with teenage disco hits.

“Do you remember things like this from when you were a kid?” asked Martin. He had a sort of wistful look in his eye as he looked over to the crowds of exited kids as they entered the school Hall.

Jon shrugged. “Wasn’t really my thing – still isn’t.”

Martin hummed in response, as one of the students walked over to them.

“Hey, Mr Blackwood,” said a nameless student. Jon watched as recognition transformed Martin’s face, and he offered the kid a warm smile.

“Hey, Alex,” he greeted. “How have you been?”

The kid gave a shrug, as he fisted his pockets for change. He produced a handful of bronze and silver, and placed what looked to make up the price of a packet of crisps. “I’m alright – mum’s starting a new treatment next week, though.”

Martin gave an understanding nod as he slid the loose coppers towards him, and gestured for Alex to pick a flavour as he tossed the coins into the plastic lockbox. They made a satisfying sound as they fell into the slots. Alex elected for Prawn Cocktail – a good choice.

“If you need to come up for a chat, my doors always open,” said Martin, in a tender and mellow tone. Alex offered a sad lopsided smile, and a nod. With that he bounded off the join a group of his friends that had been waiting off to the side. Jon watched them welcome him in, and they all wandered off, pushing against one another and laughing.

“Do you know everyone’s name?” asked Jon suddenly.

Martin looked over to him, and he scrunched his face up in thought. “Not all – but I talk to a lot of them. Kind of my job, you know?”

“I never really learnt anyone’s name at my last job,” Jon admitted. He wasn’t really sure why he was saying this, especially to Martin. “It was just a big lecture hall.”

“Must be quite a change,” said Martin quietly.

Jon nodded. “Hmm, the biggest change, honestly, is just that now I’m more aware of when people aren’t listening.”

Martin laughed again, that same easy laugh from before. Jon found his own lips curling up in a smile, feeling an odd sense of pride about eliciting that reaction. It made his chest feel warm He found he quite liked the feeling.

It was almost 11 O’clock when Jon stumbled into his flat. The event had ended at ten, but there had been quite an excessive amount of clean up. Martin had been right, though – it really hadn’t been that bad, and Jon even entertained the thought that he had actually quite enjoyed himself. He would be hard-pressed to admit it, though. He dropped his rucksack at his feet, and tiredly threw his coat over the rack. He made his way through to the bathroom, stepping past the drying rack that took up most of the hall. His eyes fell over the large white t-shirt that hung over it. He would have to remember to bring that to Martin come Monday. He flipped the bathroom light switch, and the extractor fan kicked into gear. It was an awful cluttering mechanical sound – something at some point had fallen out of place and had yet to be fixed by either him or Georgie. He padded over to the sink, and placed his glasses onto the tank lid of the toilet. He scraped his hair back into a tight bun, and splashed cool water over his face, scrubbing the day away aggressively. He lifted his head, wiping the moisture from his eyes with the corner of the hand towel. His reflection mirrored him, as hazy as it was without his glasses. Even through the fuzziness, Jon could make out the dark bags that hung deeply under his eyes. He wagered he could sleep for 6 months and somehow still look incessantly sleep deprived. A small part of his brain was keen for the challenge.

“A short coma,” he muttered to his reflection. “That might do me some good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon: calls Martin a bumbling idiot and yells at him  
> Martin: lol anyway
> 
> Also Martin: is slightly dismissive and annoyed  
> Jon: JAIL - JAIL FOR MARTIN!!!
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are very very very much appreciated!! See you guys in chapter 4! xx


	4. Spoons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, Jon – are you coming to staff drinks tomorrow night?”  
> Jon’s eyes widened, and he found himself turning to Martin in hope of an explanation. However, Martin had visibly reddened, and was transfixed by his computer, completely avoiding his gaze.  
> “I, uh – I hadn’t been aware of, uh, anything,” he confessed, as he awkwardly ran his fingers up and down the corrugated straps of his bag.  
> “Well,” she pressed, “You’re aware now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!!!
> 
> Firsty, please, please go check out pierrebezukhovsdad's tumblr account here  
> They drew a really wonderful piece of art for this fic which is just *chefs kiss* and you can see it here

The weekend passed Jon by quickly, between catching up on lost hours of sleep and cultivating lesson plans, he hadn’t achieved much. The blandness of it all was quite pleasant, and Jon found himself feeling rather rested and at peace when Monday rolled around. In his bag he carried the freshly washed and neatly folded white shirt that Martin had inelegantly leant him. The bag pressed against him sharply, as fellow commuters bumbled their way onto the already crowded tube carriage. He clicked his tongue audibly, hoping whoever the person was that was digging into him and heavily breathing down the back of his shirt would take the hint and step back. As per the London transport system, this was a common feature. He was grateful that he didn’t have to ride the carriage for long – he didn’t much care for the underground. The deeper and deeper the escalators carried him into the bowels of London the more and more aware he became of the crushing layers of earth that hung overhead. The thought made his chest tighten. He gave a small shudder as he stepped off onto the platform and made his way to the sign marked exit. The hot and dirty air of London wasn’t exactly refreshing, but Jon always found himself deeply exhaling it as he left the tube station behind. The school was a short and brisk 10-minute walk from where he found himself, and he made the trip with an increasingly familiar ease that mirrored the past week.

He followed behind a group of students as he made his way up the main steps to the entrance of the building. It was an old building, most in the area were as they had been fortunate enough to escape the worst of the blitz. A plaque hung over the main entrance honouring the school’s founder - Jonah Magnus. The place hadn’t always been a school, he knew that much from a cursory google search. It had once acted as the community library, and doubled as an archive. It explained the odd architecture of the place; many of the rooms were lacking in windows and had thick heavy doors that looked like a pain to open. A hundred odd years ago they would’ve housed important documentation, but now it was just somewhere that Henry the Hoover lived. Jon had to admit that he was a bit of a romantic for old buildings. There was just something about them that appealed to his inquisitive nature. Walking through old stone corridors gave him a similar curious rush as reading horror novels did. It was one of the reasons he had loved being at Oxford. Centuries of ghosts had wandered through those halls. He gave a short laugh; he supposed he would one day be considered one of those ghosts. Hell, maybe he already was. 

He made his way through the school halls, slipping past students that were unenthusiastically waiting for the bell to ring to send them to reception. He remembered the route to guidance from his first encounter with Martin, and besides, even if he hadn’t, friendly signs marked the way. He took the stairs two at a time, and found himself following down the open hallway into the recognisable office. He spotted Martin’s shock of curls upon entry, but also noted a face he couldn’t say he recognised sitting at one of the other desks. She was tall and slender, smartly dressed in a black button down and gently patterned hijab. As he got closer, he could hear the two chatting. The woman said something, and Martin laughed softly as he typed away at his computer. Jon suddenly felt quite awkward as he quickly rapped his knuckles against the open door.

The pairs eyes quickly darted up to him. The woman looked at him with dark eyes that ate at him with a curious hunger, Martin looked at him with a soft bewilderment.

“Jon,” Martin blurted out. “Is everything okay?”

“Uh, yes,” he said quickly, as he swung his rucksack over onto his front and quickly unzipped it, pulling out the borrowed garment. “Here’s your shirt.”

He leant over to where Martin was sitting and prompted it into Martin’s hands. He took it somewhat cautiously.

“I, uh, I cleaned it.”

His lips curled upwards, and he nodded appreciatively as he slipped it back into the bag that still lay at his feet. “Great, now I have zero excuse to not go to the gym.”

Jon found himself laughing, and he quickly slammed his lips together to prevent any other unnecessary sounds. Martin gave an amused look, his eyes crinkling gently. There was a short cough from inside the room, and Jon’s attention was brought back to the nameless woman. The curious look in her eyes had made its way across the rest of her face, creating a somewhat entertained expression.

“Oh, hello,” he said in a tone that implied he had only just noticed her. “I’m Jon – I’m the new English teacher.”

He extended a hand towards her, and she shook it firmly. “Basira Hussain – I teach RMPS.”

“Oh?” sounded Jon, curious now as to why she was sitting in guidance.

“I’m down here part-time, though,” she added, as she noted Jon’s expression.

“Budget cuts,” supplied Martin with a sigh. She gave him a weak smile, and raised her hands in a resigned motion.

“Elias pretty much needed another human down here with a grasp on empathy,” she explained.

“I think the BA in psychology was also a pretty big factor,” enunciated Martin in a very matter-of-fact manner.

She directed a blasé expression towards Martin, then returned her attention to Jon. “So, Jon – are you coming to staff drinks tomorrow night?”

Jon’s eyes widened, and he found himself turning to Martin in hope of an explanation. However, Martin had visibly reddened, and was transfixed by his computer, completely avoiding his gaze.

“I, uh – I hadn’t been aware of, uh, anything,” he confessed, as he awkwardly ran his fingers up and down the corrugated straps of his bag.

“Well,” she pressed, “You’re aware now.”

His lips began to form the familiar shape of no, but he found his head was already moving in agreement. Basira’s teeth shone bright as she smiled. “Perfect – we meet at 8, at the Spoons on the corner. You know it?”

“Uh, yes – yeah, I know it,” he said, head seemingly stuck in a perpetual motion of agreement.

“Great,” she clapped her hand against her thigh and stood up. “Well, 1st period is about to start – so I need to go and pretend not to have any opinions on the death penalty. I’ll see you two tomorrow then.”

As if on cue, the bell sounded, and Jon was quickly reminded that his own class had now started.

“Goodbye, Martin,” Jon said stiffly, as he made his way towards the exit.

“Bye!” squeaked Martin, gaze still entirely mesmerized by what was, as far as Jon could tell, his computer screensaver. He was undoubtedly a curious person, Jon decided.

Akin to a small child expecting Christmas, Jon found that this day and the next both passed at a torturous pace. It wasn’t that he was excited – it was a Weatherspoon’s after all, and would hardly be an invigorating function. But he would feel comfortable admitting that he was nervous. And it was those same nerves that left him standing in his bedroom, weighing the pros and cons of two almost identical shirts. It wasn’t that he was particularly fashion conscious, and his wardrobe mostly consisted of work attire and pyjamas, so the decision really shouldn’t have been a hard one – but, alas, there he stood in his boxers and socks, facing his hardest decision in years. In one hand he was holding an olive-green button up, that Georgie had told him compliment his skin tone nicely; and in the other hand he held a darker green shirt, with a subtle yellow paisley pattern splashed across it. That was his fun shirt. But he didn’t know if he wanted to be fun tonight. He let out a heavy groan, and threw the two shirts onto his bed. He stumbled over to his nightstand and picked up a ten pence from the pile of loose change. Heads would be the fun shirt, and tails would be the simple one. He placed the coin on his thumb, and sent it flying into the air. He cupped his hand out to catch it, but instead watched it sail past him, and land with a soft thud on the carpet. He looked down at it – heads.

Fun shirt it was.

Jon hadn’t been in a Weatherspoon’s since his university days – his student days, not his teaching days. Ten years, and an entirely different location, and yet it still looked exactly the same as he remembered it. The once garishly patterned rug had been muted by years of drunken footfall, and Jon noted notches in the carpet indicating where furniture had once sat. A loud chandelier hung overhead, against a painted ceiling, illuminating the pub in a warm and dim glow. The main bar sat in the middle of the establishment, and uniformed workers behind it glided past one another, serving up the evening rush that seemed to grace the place like clockwork every night. The white noise of drunken chatter was just verging on too loud for Jon as he pressed through the crowd to the back, where it had been stated by Tim in passing was where they usually sat. Lo and behold, illuminated by a golden sconce, sat the familiar faces of his colleagues. They were sitting in a booth, all cramped together. He found an intense feeling of relief wash over him, pushing away an anxiety he hadn’t been aware he was holding onto. They didn’t seem aware of him as he walked over, and he watched them as they chatted and laughed, oblivious to his presence. He felt a sharp pang against his heart, and he had to swiftly remind himself that this wasn’t a group of strangers to watch from afar and yearn after their familiarity – these were people he knew, that had requested his presence. And yes, maybe the invitation had verged more on the general-vague type, but Jon couldn’t bring himself to care. It had been so long since he had been invited out, he would’ve taken the invitation by Morse code if necessary.

Sasha noticed him first as he awkwardly floated just out of their perimeter. She beamed at him with the same smile she had first greeted him with. He smiled back – he knew it didn’t have that same easy look on him as it did on her, but he meant it.

“Jon!” She called over, waving her hand as if alerting him to their presence. He waved back automatically, albeit a tad more timid than her exaggerated motion. The others turned to face him, offering a few waves and smiles of their own. Tim, Jon noticed, grinned wolfishly and got up from his seat, and relocated to an empty stool that must’ve been nicked by one of them earlier. This freed up the seat next to – he sighed - The seat next to Martin was now free, and Tim gestured to it as he waggled his eyebrows. Jon’s smile turned to bewildered confusion at the other man, but he made his way over to the group and sat down next to Martin. It was quite a tight squeeze; Martin wasn’t the smallest man to begin with, and the seat was already hosting more than the recommended number of guests. He could feel a warm heat radiating from Martin, as their arms were forced against one another. He looked over to the other man, who was wearing a sheepish expression, and looking as flushed as he had been the other day. Jon wondered how much he had been drinking. Martin offered a toothy smile.

“Hello everyone,” Jon said, taking a moment to address all the faces before him. He knew Tim, and Sasha – and Martin, of course; who he was finding was becoming a more and more reoccurring character in his day to day life. Next there was Basira, who was dressed far more casually than he had last seen her. She had a striped long sleeve shirt on, which peaked out from under a colourful T-shirt that advertised a band he wasn’t familiar with. There was one new face, though - A muscular woman, with cropped blonde hair, and a tight expression.

“Jon,” said Sasha, “This is Daisy – Daisy, this is Jon. He was the one who took over after Gertrude passed.”

The two exchanged hello’s and pleasantries. Jon found out that Daisy worked alongside Tim, in the PE department.

“Right,” Tim said suddenly, slamming his hand against the ring-stained tabletop, “What’s your poison Sims? I’m buying.”

“Is that so?” challenged Sasha.

Tim shot her a wink. “I’ve already won your heart – it’s just Jon here that I still have to win over.”

Jon felt his face flush, and he looked around the table to get a reading on what everyone else had been drinking. He was dismayed to see that it looked like beer had been all of their choices. He wasn’t the biggest fan of the stuff, but felt like requesting a glass of wine would not help him break down his pretentious demeanour.

“Uh, just what you had?” he said, looking up at Tim who was looming overhead like some kind of goofy statue. “Thank you very much.”

“Your wish is my command!” he sang, as he bounded over and towards the bar.

“He’s only going to get worse,” warned Martin. “He’s only had half a pint.”

“Have I made a horrible mistake?” Jon asked sincerely. He looked around the table to see everyone nodding solemnly.

Tim returned much sooner than expected – Jon assumed his tall frame made him easy to spot amongst the bar rush. He was not jealous. Tim placed the beverage down in front of Jon with a small bow. Jon gave a snort, and thanked him, running a finger across the condensation that was trickling down the glass. He took a tentative sip, and had to fight back a face of disgust. He really did not enjoy beer.

Conversation flowed easily between the adults, and Jon found himself quite content to sit back and listen. Tim was excitedly recounting a tale from his university days, throwing his hands around wildly and bulging his eyes in a dramatic flair. Sasha was leaning comfortably against him and laughing. Basira and Daisy both shared a reluctantly amused expression, and Martin looked onto Tim with a fond tickled look that suggested he had heard the story a few times before. Jon had made surprising head way on his first glass of beer, and had been promptly offered a refill from Tim. He suspected that Tim was keen to see what kind of drunk he was. Jon imagined it wouldn’t take long to find out, as he was already feeling gently buzzed. The room felt softer, and his lips felt looser, finding their way into toothy smiles and laughter a lot easier than his sober state was able. The flushed faces of his colleagues suggested he wasn’t the only one. After Tim’s story ended, Basira knocked on the table, and began to rise to her feet.

“Well, it’s been lovely as always,” she said, as Daisy also pulled herself to her feet. Helpfully, Tim and Sasha slid out from the booth to let the two out. “I’ll see you folks tomorrow, bright and early as always.”

Daisy gave a soundless and solid wave as her farewell. There were some soft, but empty, complaints from Tim – but the two laughed him off as they made their way to the exit. Jon noticed that, now with their absence, there was a lot more space free on the bench – but this fact seemed unnoticed by Martin, who was sitting on the inside. Jon opened his mouth to point it out, but found it closing. He actually didn’t mind the feeling of the other man against his side. Martin was warm and solid, and it felt comforting – some sort of old mammalian reaction to human contact. In his proximity, he could smell the other man. He had that same orange blossom smell to him that his shirt had had, but there was a woody undertone to it. Aftershave, Jon presumed.

Jon felt very at peace in that moment – that was, however, until he caught sight of an 8-legged hairy black mass that was making its way across the table, right for him. The shriek Jon let out at the sight of the thing was nothing short of ungodly, and many heads turned his way in confusion and annoyance. Even Tim jumped up in surprise. In his panic, Jon grabbed the closest thing he could for some semblance of protection. That thing just happened to be Martin, who was shaking softly with laughter.

“The spider?” he asked incredulously. Jon could only nod his head, eyes wide in fear. Martin just shook his head as he continued to laugh. Sasha and Tim exchanged a look that Jon could only describe as knowing.

“Here,” he said, and he drained what was left in his cup, and turned the now empty glass over onto the creature, imprisoning it in. “Do you want me to move him, or are you okay as long as it’s trapped?”

In all honesty, Jon wanted very much for Martin to remove the thing from his sight, but he was aware that he had caused enough of a scene – and was still clinging to Martin with a vice-like grip, which he awkwardly loosened, as he returned back against his seat.

“Uh, no it’s okay,” he lied. “Actually, uh, let me just – “

He picked up the unused napkin beside him, slightly dampened from his glass, and opened it out. Gingerly, he placed it over the glass. What he couldn’t see wouldn’t hurt him. At least he hoped that was the case.

“Not a fan of spiders?” sussed Martin, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“They’re disgusting, vile creatures,” he spat back, crossing his arms over his chest.

Martin raised his eyebrows. “I think they’re kind of cute, actually – especially the fuzzy ones.”

Jon must have been wearing quite a face of confused horror, as Martin’s grin grew wider. Jon felt that same feeling he had felt at the school dance when Martin had laughed; that same warm glow that was nestled somewhere in his chest bloomed gently. Through his own scowl, he found himself smiling back. And then he laughed, and then Martin laughed – and the two were laughing. Jon could feel Martin’s shoulders shaking alongside his own, and in that moment, allayed by bitter tasting beer, he felt happy.

The night air was cold and biting when the four stumbled their way out of the door. It looked like it had rained during the past few hours, and the puddles glinted like winking eyes as their footfall disturbed the crystalline surface. Overhead, streetlights shone like golden stars, casting a warm glow across the damp street. Everything looked softer at night, imperfections hidden by shadows and garish flaws subdued under honeyed lights. Jon tended to find a lot of peace at nightfall.

Jon pulled his jacket tighter across himself, as he sighed out a cloud of condensation into the chilly night. Without Martin by his side acting as a human radiator, he noted that he was much colder.

“Is everyone good to get home?” asked Sasha, as she loosely held onto Tim’s arm, gently swaying against him. Tim was looking down at her with a fond expression; they made quite a striking couple in Jon’s opinion. He wondered what it would feel like to have someone look at him with such a look of devoted adoration. He smiled at them.

“Yes, yes – my tubes just a few minutes away,” he said, pulling one of his hands out of his pocket to point in the general direction of the station.

“Where abouts do you stay?” asked Martin, shoulders hunched up against the night breeze. “I’m heading to the station myself.”

“Just on the East side,” he supplied. “Near Clapton.”

“Oh – I’m near there,” Martin said, with a surprised smile.

“Alright, you two get home safely,” said Tim, wrapping an arm around Sasha’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

They exchanged a few farewell waves, leaving Jon and Martin alone to head off in the opposite direction. They got to the end of the street in comfortable silence, minus the gentle clacking of their shoes against the cobblestone road. The red and blue glow of the London underground sign stood out like a beacon before them, and they quickly made their way into the tiled and brightly lit station.

“Thank you,” said Jon, as he slid his oyster card through the gates. “For, well – for letting me come tonight. I know we didn’t get off on the best foot so I, uh, I appreciate it. I had a nice time.”

Martin smiled, as he pushed past the turnstile, lifting up his messenger bag so as not to get it caught in the silver spokes. “Of course, Jon. I’m glad you came.”

Jon pulled a curious expression. “You are?”

“Yeah,” answered Martin as the two made their way down the escalator and deeper into the station. Jon felt the familiar tightness of his lungs that the underground always gifted. “You’re – I just, ah - I’m just glad you came.”

Jon looked down, somewhat bashfully in an attempt to hide the small smile that had found its way onto his face. Soft music grew louder as they made their way to the platform. During the morning rush, Jon never paid much heed to buskers; too distracted by bustling crowds and ticking watches to listen. A woman, sat upon an old camping chair, softly fingered the strings of an old acoustic guitar, teasing sweet melodies from it. Jon watched her play for the few desolate souls that roamed the station and was struck with how ridiculously human it was - to play such beautiful song, miles below the earth. It was in listening he was reminded of a quote from 1984:

“For whom, for what, was that bird singing? No mate, no rival was watching it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and pour its music into nothingness?”

In all his years of teaching, and reading and analysing text, he had never understood that quote better until that moment. Slowly, the melody receded against the grinding noise of the old tube carriage that was pulling up before them. Jon felt a sad pity as he stepped onto the carriage and the doors shut against the music. The two elected not to sit down, the seats in their particular carriage were acutely worn down and it wasn’t too long a journey for either of them.

“Any crazy plans for this evening?” asked Martin, as he held onto one of the handles that swung overhead.

“Will most likely just be annoying the Admiral and then passing out,” said Jon, as he latched onto a separate handrail.

“The admiral?” said Martin with a puzzled expression.

“My cat – I didn’t name him.”

“You have a cat?” exclaimed Martin, with an excited smile. Jon gave a vague nod.

“Well,” he said, “not mine _per say_ – he belongs to Georgie.”

“Georgie?”

“My roommate,” he supplied.

“Ah,” sounded Martin. “The one who bullies you?”

Jon pulled his lips tight, and mirthlessly glared at Martin. “She didn’t bully me.”

Martin shrugged, unwilling to concede the point. “Your roommate bullies you and your cat outranks you – must be rough.”

“Not to mention the colleague that rubs it in.”

“Things are always best in threes,” said Martin with a playful smile. The tube began to shudder to a stop and Martin let go of the handle, leaving it to swing wildly as the tube joltingly halted.

“That’s me,” he pointed out, as he readjusted his coat and made his way to the doors. “See you later, Jon.”

Jon gave a stiff wave with his free hand. “Goodnight, Martin.”

The doors quickly shut on Martin, and Jon watched him as he made his way towards the exit through the carriage windows. The tube slowly began to pick up speed as it sent him hurtling back into the darkness of the tunnel and towards home.

When Jon awoke, it was pressed under a silent weight. He knew that he would have to open his eyes, would have to face the incessant bleating of his alarm clock, but the thought of looking out across his spindly arms, as they fumbled to silence the offender, made his heart clench uncomfortably. His next step would be to push the covers off and get out of bed. He attempted to free himself from the linen prison he found himself in, but his arms felt too weak to fight back against the fabric. Limply, he collapsed further into his mattress, the crumpled sheets feeling sticky underneath his sweaty form and gluing him in place. Sharp and ceaseless morning light attempted to sneak its way into his room, and he glowered at it, as he pulled the cover over his head. The light was softer under the covers, diffused through patterned fabric. He stared down at his foetal body, coiled in on itself, and let out a weak sigh.

He called in sick that day.

He must’ve slept for half the day, for when he awoke, the sun was beginning its clockwork descent. He kicked the covers off, releasing a sad and musty scent that always hung around on bed-ridden days. His spindly legs brought him towards the door. His chest felt far too heavy for his legs to carry, and he all but fell towards the kitchen. Jon had once been compared to one of those “spaghetti-marshmallow-towers” by Georgie, and he felt in that moment, that the description had never applied more. He felt warmth brush against his ankles, and he looked down to see the Admiral slinking his way between his legs. He leant down to scoop him up, and held him against his chest like one would a baby, or a bag of flour. He bounced a little on the balls of his feet, rocking the cat gently. The Admiral purred against him, and burrowed his head into the crook of Jon’s neck. He gave a soft laugh, and began to stroke gentle patterns into his fur. There was a click of the lock, and the door swung open to reveal Georgie. She gave him a curious smile as she hung her coat a.

“You’re still in pyjamas?” she stated in question. “You unwell?”

“Were you out with Melanie?” He asked, without conceding her question. Melanie was one of Georgie’s co-workers at ‘What the Ghost’, a horror-type podcast show, that looked into local supernatural incidents. It was rather trite, in Jon’s opinion – but he had made the mistake once before of admitting that, and had then vowed to keep silent on that matter.

Georgie gave an admitting nod. “I saw her a bit earlier – I said hello from you.”

“I don’t recall sending her regards,” said Jon, switching the Admiral over to his other arm. His right was getting rather tired. He gave a short meow of protest, but settled in against him quickly enough when Jon continued to stroke behind his ear.

“Yeah, well, I’m attempting to somewhat salvage your reputation in her eyes,” said Georgie with a heatless huff. It was no secret to Jon that Melanie was not the biggest fan of his. Whilst Georgie had mostly brushed off his comments about their show, Melanie had taken it directly to heart. If he remembered correctly, she had called him a ‘pompous ass’. He figured it wasn’t the worst given assessment of his character. He honestly commended her for being able to stay so consistently angry at him these last few years; most people lacked that kind of dedication.

“It would be nice if you put some effort in,” continued Georgie, as she crossed her arms. “It would be nice to have her over sometime – but I can’t if you two are just going to go off at each other like wild cats. No offense Admiral.”

The Admiral didn’t seemed phased by the comment, as he continued to gently purr against Jon.

“I bet it would be nice,” hummed Jon, shooting Georgie a knowing look. She cocked her head to the side, tightening her lips and rolling her eyes.

“Enough, Jon,” she warned, but her tight-lipped expression loosened, and Jon knew it was heatless. “I’ve got a meeting with a graphic designer later – Melanie wants to change the logo.”

“Do you?”

She shrugged. “I’m not fussed, to be honest. But I’m having dinner with him – and the company’s covering it – “

“- so free dinner?”

“Essentially,” she said with a toothy grin. “There’s some leftovers in the fridge from last night – feel free to help yourself to them.”

As if in response, Jon’s stomach began to growl. He was reminded that he hadn’t eaten since before the pub last night. He gave a considering nod. “I might – thank you.”

She gave him a wonky smile, and bridged the gap between them to press a soft kiss into the Admiral’s fur. The cat turned his head away from Jon, and leant into her. She stroked the top of his head, and then looked up at Jon.

“Alright, I have to go and gussy myself up – talk to you in a bit!” She quickly sauntered her way over to her bedroom door, and slipped in, leaving the door open.

“Is this a date or a meeting?” called Jon.

“You would whore yourself up, too, if you saw his LinkedIn profile picture,” she yelled back. Jon rolled his eyes, and pressed his face gently into the Admiral’s fur as music began to sound from Georgie’s room. He could hear her singing along as he flopped onto the couch. The Admiral leapt from his grasp as he landed, and began to rub himself against the leg of the coffee table.

“What do you want to watch?” he asked the cat, who responded by digging his claws into the carpet and stretching out his back. Jon gave a contemplative look. “No, not today – what about a documentary?”

The Admiral didn’t cease his current task, so Jon took that as a yes and began to search through Netflix. He shared an account with Georgie, so most of the recommendations tended to fall into the True Crime/Horror genre. He wasn’t opposed to it; in fact, he and Georgie had initially bonded over Ian Rankin’s Rebus’ series when they’d first met. After a few moments of mindless scrolling he came across one that looked to be about deep-sea exploration. He doubted he would be able to pay much attention to whatever the narrator was saying, but the visuals made for content blank staring. He was about 15 minutes into the program when he heard Georgie clack behind him, as her now heeled shoes made their way over to him.

“Do I look alright?”

She was dressed smartly, but flatteringly enough to as not look stuffy; a well fitted purple blouse, adorned with golden intricate buttons, tucked neatly into a pair of high-waisted woollen, checked cigarette trousers. Her dark and frizzy curls hung like a halo around her made-up face. She gave an awkward smile as she gestured to her outfit.

“You look very nice, Georgie,” said Jon earnestly. She leant over and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“Okay – don’t wait up for me,” she said, with a soft smile. The door clicked shut behind her, and Jon let out a heavy sigh, meant for no one in particular. There was an odd part of him that wanted to cry. He didn’t.

He called in sick the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim (telepathically to Martin this entire chapter): really, this is the man you're in love with??
> 
> Also for some reason Martin putting the glass over the spider is really BDE for me, but I think I might have a very weak grasp of what constitutes BDE 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!! I really need to work out a consistent posting schedule ... but such things are not in my nature. Comments and kudos are very much appreciated, and if you want to message me or anything - I'm on Tumblr at Buccata!  
> See you next chapter!! xx


	5. Cathy's Cafe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jonathon Sims,” said Martin, in almost a whisper, “did you used to be cool?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! Sorry this update came a little later than the last four - I'm trying to get into a proper uploading schedule. So, I will be uploading every Friday now! Unless I get impatient and want to upload early ....  
> Also! Episode 170!!! What the hell?? It was so good - definitely one of my favourite episodes from the whole show

There was a cup of tea on Jon’s desk the following day. Sometime between 2nd period and break it had appeared. He gave it a cautious sniff – it smelt like tea. He couldn’t suss out any mysterious or malevolent substances in the honey coloured liquid. It felt hot in his hands, so it must’ve been made recently. It had been placed right in the centre of his desk, so it must have been deliberate. Tentatively he raised the cup to his lips and took a timid sip. It tasted like tea, and was in fact, a very nice cup of tea.

The thought of the tea carried him throughout the day – who had brought it to him? And why? He hadn’t finished the cup, there had been a small niggling feeling of anxiety that prevented a second sip. What harm would befall him; he didn’t know. He was a bit of a curt man, but not enough so warrant an assassination attempt. No, it had just been a nice gesture. Maybe that seemed more puzzling, though. As whatever he had done to warrant not being murdered, he hadn’t exactly earned kind gestures such as freshly made tea. He was still thinking of it when the bell sounded the end of the day and he was cleaning his classroom of the daily debris of forgotten pencils and scrap paper. It was at the back of the room, dropped face first underneath a table that he found a jotter that did not belong in his room. It wasn’t the bright yellow that all English jotters traditionally were, and bore the name Jenna Macpherson, with Miss James scrawled underneath, alongside the words GCSE History in all capitals.

He gave a huff – he didn’t have her class until Thursday, and she had hardly presented herself as competent enough in his class to show the brains to search for the thing. He remembered Sasha telling him that her class was just above his when they had first met, so with those directions in mind, he headed up to find her. 

She was at her desk when he knocked, and she ushered him in with a wave of her hand and a smile. Her classroom looked like a before and after picture, with his as the before, and hers as the after. What looked like custom built shelves lined the walls, stacked with neatly labelled boxes and precisely stacked paperwork. The paint job looked fresher, and she had placed inspirational quotes and old news articles and photos against the wall. Somehow the fluorescent lighting seemed softer.

“Heya, Jon,” she greeted as he bridged the gap between them. “What’s up?”

Her curls were piled atop her head, and by a cursory glance, it appeared that a pencil was holding it in place. She was dressed in warm yellows and oranges. She looked like human sunshine. Jon suddenly felt overly aware of his mangled and grey frame, drenched in wrinkled clothing. He thrusted the jotter towards her, and she instinctively leant back, looking mildly perplexed. “It’s, uh, I found it in my room – it’s one of yours,” he explained, reeling back slightly.

“Oh,” she said, reaching up to take it. He watched her eyes quickly scan the label and she nodded. “Ah – Jenna, yeah, I have her first thing tomorrow. Thank you – I’ll give this to her.”

“Good,” he said, and then, without thinking, “Did you bring me tea earlier?”

Her brow furrowed quickly, and then relaxed as she shook her head. “No – not me, sorry.”

“Someone put a cup of tea on my desk,” he said, supplying a question she didn’t ask.

She let out an amused exhalation. “That sounds very much like Martin’s M.O.”

“Martin? Why would Martin make me tea?” he asked, slightly taken aback.

A look of confusion flickered across Sasha’s face, before falling into a small, almost pitying smile. She offered Jon a short shrug. “The boy likes making tea.”

“Oh,” was all Jon could say, giving a clear indicating that that answer had not been entirely satisfactory. “That’s … nice.”

“How are you feeling today?” she asked. “I noticed you were off the past few days.”

That made something in Jon’s chest lurch. She had noticed his absence. Why did such small comments make Jon feel like he was falling apart? He swallowed. “Y- Yes, yes, I’m fine now – it was just a small bug, didn’t want to risk spreading anything.”

“Ah, sorry to hear that,” she said. “I’m glad you’re feeling better now, though.”

She gave him a look of pure sincerity, and Jon felt that feeling in his chest turn to lead. He felt bad lying to her, and having her share her sympathy’s openly with his lie. But he could hardly say “Oh, yes, I’m perfectly fine, just felt a little bit _sad_ is all” – that was hardly a better excuse, even if it was the truth.

“Thank you, Sasha. I - I should leave you to your work, have a good afternoon.”

“Was nice talking with you, Jon.”

Jon hadn’t smoked in quite some time; it wasn’t a habit that enveloped his life, but it wasn’t one he found himself keen to kick anytime soon, much to the dismay of Georgie, who was religiously against it. He found that her stringent rules led him to not huff the things down as routine, but more fall back on them when things felt particularly stressful. He had had a bad few days, and he was still in the middle of a transition into the new job – he was stressed, he was allowed to be, and he was going to stand there, in the bitter British wind, and enjoy his cigarette. Or he would’ve if the back door into the courtyard hadn’t swung over. He dropped the stick quickly, a reflex learned over years of hiding the habit, and crushed the flame under his heel.

“Martin,” he said as a greeting. The other man, oblivious to his presence prior, looked up. He looked exhausted; his skin was the colour of larva, which accentuated the purple bags that hung from his eyes and his hair was a mess of ruffled curls that gave a suggestion to a restless night’s sleep. He looked awful.

“Oh - Jon,” he said, blinking in surprise. His face tried to find the familiar lines of a smile, but he didn’t seem to have the energy. “How’re you?”

Jon blinked. “How am I? How are you? Martin, you look – “

“Like shit?” he suggested, giving a small laugh as he spoke. There was none of the easiness that Jon had come to associate with the sound, it felt empty – and it made Jon feel oddly sad.

“Bluntly speaking, yes – is everything okay?”

Martin squeezed his eyes shut, and tried again for a carefree smile. “Yes – Jon, I’m fine. Just a bad night’s sleep, is all.”

“Oh,” said Jon. There was a part of him that desired to press the issue further, but he found himself unable to conjure up any words or phrases that might tempt Martin to share more. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Martin shrugged, readjusting the bag that hung off his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it – I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” nodded Jon. “Get home safe.”

“You too, Jon,” he said, as he limply bounded off towards the school gates. Jon was left alone, surrounded by the suffocating smell of old cigarette smoke. He pulled his foot up the reveal the half smoked crumpled piece of paper that laid smashed against the concrete. He half debated lighting another, as his first had been cut short. His hand found its way towards the metallic lighter that pressed heavily against his thigh. He flicked it on a few times, feeling the increasing warmth of the metal wheel press indents into his finger. He sighed. He didn’t light a second.

Eve Booth was standing before his desk, as requested by him at the end of their lesson. She looked tight, and uncomfortable, and awkwardly fingered with her tie as an attempt to avoid eye contact.

“Do you want to take a seat?” he asked, but it was more of a gentle demand. She made a wordless sound of agreement, and pulled free one of the chairs that sat underneath the tables. With a scrape, she brought it to in front of his desk, and fell into it.

“I still haven’t received a copy of your personal essay,” he began, “I know you are aware that your personal and creative pieces make up 25% of your final grade, so my question is – why haven’t you done it yet?”

She carried that same lost look that she had worn during their first meeting, and her eyes sat heavy in her skull, unwilling to meet his. “I’m sorry, sir.”

He sighed, and let his head fall for a moment, before quickly picking it back up. “I’m not asking for an apology, Eve – I’m looking for an explanation; I can’t help you unless you work with me here.”

Somehow, she dropped lower in the chair, as if attempting to crawl inside herself and vanish, uroboros style. Jon noticed that her feet were bouncing up and down, drumming a song of anxiety into the musty carpet. He chewed on the inside of his lip, as he watched her go through the motions of somebody who very much did not want to be sitting there. He gave a short cough, and placed his hands together on the desk, in a facade attempt of looking authoritarian. “Eve?”

There was a terse moment of silence, until it was broken by the shaky sound of hot tears falling from her eyes. She quickly burrowed her face in her hands, pushing the fabric of her cardigan against them like a dam. Jon blinked – he hadn’t prepared for this scenario, and was feeling at loss for what to do. He gingerly pushed the box of tissues on his desk towards her as a symbol of sympathy. She took a handful, and quickly got to work dabbing away the moisture. When the tears stopped, she bundled the tissues up in her hand and gripped them tightly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wetly. “I didn’t mean to start crying.”

Jon nodded, swallowing. “It’s, uh – it’s okay, you can cry if you need to.”

She took a few moments to compose herself, as she pushed herself higher up on the chair and took a few deep breathes. “Sorry,” she repeated – Jon shook his head, she had no reason to be.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. “At home, or –“ he wavered off, she was already shaking her head.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m sorry that I’ve been behind on work, I’ll get it together.”

Looking at her, Jon was struck once again by how much he saw his own sadness in her. He had said those exact words to his seniors during his time at Oxford. Working there, it felt like he had been constantly fighting off outside sources. An incessant swarm of colleagues and students constantly coming up to his door, asking for updates and papers and lesson plans and other things that he was struggling to provide. And then, when he admitted it, admitted his weakness, his faults - they struck him with sickly sweet smiles of false understanding – hiding words such as incompetent slob, and pathetic mess behind his back. They had been right, though, and he more than proved their point when he had been dismissed. Of his own will, of course. Although, admittedly, there had been nudges and prompts from those above him.

“Are you sure you want to come back?” they had crooned, with their practiced faces of empathy. “It just doesn’t feel like this is the best environment for you.”

He had just looked at them, with his jaw clenched and an unbearable sickness in his stomach, and nodded. He had wanted to fight back, to tell them that they were wrong, and Oxford was where he was meant to be. To tell them he had hit a rough patch, but was fine now. But he didn’t - because they were right. Maybe that was the worst part of it all. Jon had spent his entire life trying to prove himself, and he had failed.

He noticed too late that Eve had already left.

There was a leak in the kitchen. Water dripped in a hypnotic rhythm from the ceiling and onto the dirty linoleum tiled floor. When Jon had come in, he had assumed Georgie had left a tap on, and had been more than dismayed to see the sluggish brown water that was pooling in the kitchen corner. He sighed, and dropped his bag to the floor. He didn’t want to call his landlord, he was useless at the best of times – and would most likely find some way to weasel them out of their deposit, as if it were their fault. London Landlords did not have the best grasp on empathy; most didn’t, but Londoners topped the bill. When he had come over to adjust the lease when Jon moved in, he had made a comment about how clean he kept his building, and how they would be certain not to find any bugs or parasites. Georgie had huffed a comment along the lines of ‘and yet you’re still here’ under her breath. Jon had called once when the extractor fan in the bathroom bit the dust, and he had been fed a long spiel about accepting responsibility and manning up for the task – which, in landlord terms, translated to ‘please break it, I want to bleed you dry in expenses’.

Jon crouched down, and begun to sort through the half empty bottles of bleach and cleaning supplies under the sink, worming his way through to the mop bucket that lay tucked in at the back. He placed it under the drip, and the sound changed to a higher note against the plastic. There was an old mustiness to the liquid, and Jon felt reluctant to place a wager on what exactly it was. He knew that no one lived above him – the family had moved out a few months ago, and no one had been keen to move in afterwards; most likely due to the extortionate rent. So he couldn’t blame it on an overflowed bath, or clogged toilet – and was most likely just a bust pipe. It wasn’t uncommon, especially in older buildings such as the one he stayed in. He heard a sound of affection from behind him, and felt the warm brush of fur as the Admiral sauntered into the room. He made a curious beeline for the bucket, and jumped up to peer inside. Jon leant down to quickly scoop him up.

“Please don’t drink that,” he said, and went to place the cat down in the living room. He made a sound of protest, but quickly relaxed against the woollen pillow, stretching out his maw in a yawn. Pretty soon, his eyes fluttered close, and Jon felt an unreasonable surge of jealousy towards the creature that he was able to nod off so quickly. Maybe in a next life Jon would be lucky enough to be reborn as a cat, maybe then he would finally get a good night’s sleep.

Underneath the covers that night, Jon couldn’t silence the repetitive drip of the leak. It seemed louder in his room somehow, as if it were dripping directly against his skull. He gave a groan, and pulled the spare pillow that lay beside him onto his face. He wanted to scream into it, but knew the flimsy thing would hardly muffle any shouts. It did nothing to diffuse the incessant drip. He peered to his right from between the pillows to see his alarm clock grimly denoting that it was almost 4am. The sky was beginning to lighten, turning the colour of a week-old bruise. He would be up soon enough, there was no point in continuing to lie there, with tortured promises of rest.

Eve wasn’t in the next day, or the next. By the third day, Jon gave in and found himself outside guidance during lunch. He could hear the soft sounds of typing, and a radio playing – it sounded like the Archers. There was no one else in the office, beside Martin, who had his back to him.

“Hello, Martin,” said Jon, with a soft knock on the doorframe, “Do you have a moment?”

Martin looked up from his computer, and offered Jon a welcoming smile. He still looked exhausted, though, and the bags underneath his eyes had only worsened. “Of course – is everything okay?”

He crept forward into the room, and cleared his throat. “I have some, ah – some concerns. About one of my students.”

“Would you like to sit down?” asked Martin, gesturing to the spare seat that was pressed against his desk, most likely meant for students to use during their sessions with him. He accepted, and tried not to focus on the itchy feeling of the worn-down threadbare covering.

“Which of your students is raising concern?” inquired Martin, now eye-level.

Jon worried his lip, and awkwardly picked at a loose bit of skin around his thumb. He felt wrong being there; he felt like he was going behind her back. He shook his head mentally – it was his job to look out for his students, that was all he was doing: his job.

“Eve Booth,” he said quietly. Martin nodded, he seemed to pick up on Jon’s nervous energy, as he appeared to move in quiet slow motion. “She’s just seemed – She just looks –“

Like me, Jon thought.

“- I just know something is wrong, and I’m not the best necessarily at talking to people,” he blurted out. “I didn’t know what to do – so, I came to you, it seemed like the right thing.”

Martin smiled, but it failed to meet his eyes, and he nodded again. “I can arrange a session with her, and me and her can have a little chat. Thank you, Jon.”

“Thank you?” Jon furrowed his brow in confusion.

“For bringing it to my attention,” said Martin, “and for looking out for your students. You’re a good teacher, Jon – a good person.”

Oh. Jon didn’t think he’d ever heard someone describe him as good – only as asshole, dick, pompous-twat, insensitive jerk, patronizing snob. Never good. It was such a simple word, such a low bar to hit, and yet – yet it felt like Jon had been struck by a truck when he heard Martin say it. Martin said it in a way that almost made him believe it. Then his gaze slowly turned to mist, and he dropped his head, attempting to quickly blink away the vulnerability.

“Jon?” he heard the soft whisper of Martin’s voice say. There was a slow beat, and then he felt the weight of Martin’s hand press against his knee. He blinked slowly, allowing the moisture to fall freely, and leaving a crystalline image of Martin’s fingers pressed into the fabric of his trousers. He stared at it, at the soft hairs that glinted in the fluorescent lighting, at the small freckles that scampered their way up his wrist and behind his shirt sleeve. He wanted to reach out and see if it felt as warm in his hand as it did against his knee. He swallowed. The weight had begun to feel almost unbearably heavy. He coughed gently, attempting to loosen the lump that had found its way inside his throat. Using the cuff of his sleeve, he quickly blotted away the tears from his eyes, as if it somehow made it seem like it had never happened. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact. His mouth felt both too wet, and too dry simultaneously. “That was unprofessional – I should leave now.”

He made to stand up, but was cut off by Martin grabbing his arm and tugging him back down. He landed with a surprised thud.

“Sorry, it goes against both my code as a guidance counsellor, and as a human being to let you walk out of this room in tears,” he laughed. “Besides, I don’t want people thinking I’m the reason you’re crying.”

Jon tried to laugh, but the sound came out garbled and crackled, like it was being played through an untuned radio. Martin gave him a soft look. Even worn down with obvious fatigue, his eyes still shone so brightly with care, and Jon wondered if he had been given the job solely due to the fact that his face just screamed nurturing.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

Jon shook his head. “There really isn’t anything to talk about. I just - I’m just tired, Martin.”

It wasn’t a lie in itself, he was tired – painfully so most days. But he also didn’t want to admit to Martin that being called a ‘Good Person’ had brought him to tears. Martin’s respect for the man had most likely been eaten away with every single interaction since their first, and this would just bring the whole building down. Martin looked at him with a hesitant look, showing obvious doubt. He didn’t press it, though, and Jon appreciated that.

“If there ever is anything,” he began, soft spoken as always, “anything that you do want to talk about – you know I’m here, right?”

Jon swallowed, and nodded. He found, that without a trace of doubt in his mind, that he did know that. “Yes, yes - thank you, Martin.”

The two sat in comfortable, companionable silence for a moment. Jon cleared his throat again, and brought himself to his feet. To his surprise, Martin rose alongside him, and escorted him to the exit. Jon turned to say farewell, but was cut off by a wordless hug, as Martin drew his arms around him and brought him in close. Jon managed to stop himself from gasping as he felt himself fall into the embrace. It was tight, and warm and over far too quickly.

“What was that for?” Jon found himself asking.

Martin flushed a little, looking mildly sheepish. “You, uh – you looked like you needed it.”

Jon nodded. “Oh, I – thank you, Martin.”

Martin swallowed, and then looked away for a brief moment. “Hey, have you eaten yet?”

Jon’s thoughts went to the single tub of yoghurt that awaited him in the staff fridge. He shook his head.

“There’s a small café up the road – it’s a little on the pricey side, so it’s not swarmed with students, but its good food,” said Martin, a small smile creeping its way onto his face and a tinge of colour to his ears. “I quite like it there – but we can go somewhere else, or not – obviously, you don’t have to come out for lunch with me if you don’t want to.”

Jon’s eyebrows shot up. He was being invited out to lunch. The only person who ever invited him out to lunch was Georgie, and that was only when the two of them had been too lazy to do a food shop, so it hardly counted. His head started to nod. “Yes, Martin, that sounds quite pleasant.”

Martin all but beamed at him, and Jon found himself smiling back.

“Lead the way.”

There was a warmth to the air as the two exited the building. Spring had settled in gently, and the caged trees that sprouted up along the school’s courtyard were beginning to bud. In the distance, rain clouds warned their arrival. But for now, the sun shone brightly down, unhindered by such future possibilities, and brightly saturated the street. What a difference sunlight could make.

“So,” started Martin, “are you reading anything good at the moment?”

Jon pondered the question for a moment, as they crossed over onto the street. “Unfortunately not,” he admitted, “I’ve been a bit busy recently. What about you – do you read much?”

“I’ve been re-reading Norman MacCaig’s work recently –“

“The poet?” jumped in Jon. Martin laughed.

“Yes, Jon, the poet – I know you’re not a huge fan of poetry, but his work is quite pleasant,” argued Martin gently. “Well, maybe pleasant isn’t the right word – most of his work is a little depressing.”

“As far as poets go,” said Jon, “he isn’t bad. I do enjoy his use of personification.”

Martin smirked slightly, as he pressed the button to summon the green man that would promise safe passage. “We’re almost there,” he said, and gestured across the road. It was a small, white and clean looking establishment, that jutted out from the corner of a tenement block. Fake ivy hung in the window, alongside a decal that read “Cathy’s Café”. Jon wondered if the owner was really called Cathy, and if she had gone into the line of work solely for the homophonic alliteration. There were a few tables and chairs outside, but they sat empty. It was warm, but not warm enough for that.

The door sounded as Martin pushed it open, a soft jingle of a golden bell. The place was homely inside, with worn down wooden tables, with brightly painted legs, alongside mismatched chairs with vibrantly patterned cushions. It seemed like all available wall space had been taken up by photos and posters, advertising local events such as fundraisers and concerts. Jon noticed a familiar poster for the School’s dance. He wondered how old some of the other fliers might be, and if Cathy kept them up for an aesthetic or an informative intent. It wasn’t as busy as one would expect for a lunch rush – and most patrons looked to be alone, busied with laptops or books, and headphones in against the soft jazz that was buzzing from the speakers.

There was a sound of familiarity from behind the counter, and Jon turned to see the infamous Cathy, or at least her nametag suggested so. Martin smiled at her, and gave her a polite wave as she welcomed them in.

“What do you want?” asked Martin, as he reached around to pull his wallet out from his back pocket. “It’s on me.”

Jon reddened, and immediately shook his head. “No, no – Martin, that’s very kind of you, but it’s not necessary.”

“Hush,” he said. “It’s my treat.”

Jon continued to argue, but only for polite, British necessity – he knew his words were falling against deaf ears, as Martin just continued to shake his head and smile. He ended up ordering the cheapest thing he could, and he wasn’t going to be talked into anything fancier than a black coffee and scone. The two sat down at the back, next to a large arched window that looked out onto the busy London street. There was a small suncatcher dangling next to the window, and it twisted and danced in the light, sending refracted rainbows across the café. It was quite pretty, and Jon made a mental note to look into investing one of his own. It might make his bedroom seem less dreary.

Jon gave his coffee a quick stir, to make sure none of the grounds had settled at the bottom, and watched as the small white bubbles swirled around his spoon, almost like they were chasing after it. He had a small inclination to put his finger into the cup and touch them. Across from him, Martin took a tentative sip of the tea he had ordered, checking the temperature. He made a contented face as he placed it back down against the saucer.

Up close, his eyebags looked even worse, and his eyes looked bloodshot and worn. Jon wanted to ask, to see if everything was okay – Martin had said he had slept badly before, but Jon felt like there were other factors at play. He waited a moment, as if seeing if he could muster up the courage to breach the subject again. He faltered.

“Thank you,” he said instead. 

“You say that a lot,” mused Martin. It wasn’t meant to sound critical, and Jon didn’t take it that way, it was just merely an observation. “You don’t have to thank me for inviting you out, you know?”

Jon didn’t reply, but he picked up his cup of coffee and held it in his hands. The warmth felt nice against his skin. He took a sip. It was hot and bitter, and just what he needed.

“How long have you lived in London?” asked Martin, as he spooned soup into his mouth.

“About nine months, give or take – honestly the first few were a bit of a blur,” said Jon. “What about you?”

Martin looked to be considering his answer, and he took another sip of his tea. “Six years? I think. God, has it really been that long?”

The last question seemed to be just for himself. He shook his head, and gave Jon an easy smile. “It’s lonely here, though. I grew up in Devon, proper Shire country, so there weren’t that many people – but folks knew you. I remember when I first moved up here – god, so many people. But I didn’t know anyone. It was hard, honestly.”

Jon nodded. “Yes, if it hadn’t been for Georgie, I think I would’ve completely fallen apart.”

“How did you two meet?”

“We were both studying English together at Oxford, although we took very different paths with our degrees,” he laughed a little there. “She runs a show called ‘What the Ghost’ – it’s a horror type podcast … thing.”

“Wait – Georgie, like Georgie Baker?” said Martin, suddenly sitting up straighter.

“Oh god, do you listen to it?”

He nodded, and then laughed. “Wow, no offense, but I can _not_ imagine the two of you being friends.”

“We used to date, actually,” he said, with a small, smug grin.

“Really?”

“God, years ago – this was when I was still in a band,” he said, giving a nostalgic sigh.

“You were in a band!” exclaimed Martin. “How is this not the first thing you tell people when you meet them?”

A man at the table beside them looked up from his book at Martin’s cry, he gave them a furrowed look and huffed into his tea. Martin grimaced slightly, and shot the man an apologetic look.

Jon laughed. “That I was in an edgy university band? I think I would rather keep that to myself for the most part.”

“Jonathon Sims,” said Martin, in almost a whisper, “did you used to be cool?”

“Used to?” he said, with a raised eyebrow. Martin grinned back in response, and Jon smiled. He was finding it increasingly harder to not smile at Martin when he did so. There was just something about his awkward toothy grin that made him feel … well, he didn’t really know what it made him feel – but it made him want to smile.

“No, no – of course you’re still cool,” said Martin, nodding sincerely, “Argyle sweater vests are the height of coolness.”

Jon looked down at the garment in question, and loosely picked a bit of lint away from it. It was one of his nicer vests. “Well, I can hardly wear ripped jeans and eyeliner to teach English.”

Martin blinked slowly. “Did – did you used to wear eyeliner?”

Jon quickly took on the shade of a fatigued tomato, stammering quickly in an attempt to retract what had already been thrown out into the universe. “N-no,” he said unconvincingly. Martin’s eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped comically. He clapped his hands together and laughed joyfully.

“You’re full of surprises, you know that?” There was a fondness to the statement that didn’t go unnoticed by Jon, and he was grateful for the already flushed state of his cheeks. He took a large gulp of his coffee, lukewarm now – neglected due to conversation.

“Well, what about you?” said Jon, placing his cup down and throwing a hand in his direction.

“Me?”

“I embarrassed myself, it’s only fair that you embarrass yourself, too.” He leant back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest in a clear declaration of ‘I am not budging from this point’.

“I-I don’t have anything embarrassing,” stammered Martin, his own cheeks turning a bright shade of crimson. Jon scoffed.

“I doubt that.”

“Hey!”

He raised his eyebrow higher, taunting Martin to expose himself. Martin squirmed under his gaze, buying time with a slow sip of his tea. After a moment, he sighed, and muttered something that Jon could barely make out as “fine”.

“I - I write … poetry,” he said quietly, biting down on his lips as soon as it fell out.

“Poetry?” repeated Jon. “That’s not embarrassing that’s just – “

He had to stop himself quickly, as the next word to come out was definitely going to be ‘stupid’. He had already apologised to Martin before about his rudeness, and he was keen to not have a repeat.

“-Normal.”

Martin squinted his eyes in suspicion. “What were you going to say?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” said Jon, in an entirely blasé tone. Martin still gave him a look of suspicion, but conceded it with a heatless eyeroll. Jon broke off a bit of scone and placed it in his mouth. “What kind of poetry do you write?” Jon asked, after swallowing.

“Oh,” said Martin, as he absentmindedly ran his fingers over the rim of his mug. “Prose stuff, I guess. Just whatever inspires me. You know, life events, places – people, sometimes.”

There was a harsh buzz of a phone, and Martin quickly fumbled around in his pockets, protruding a chunky looking smartphone. It looked like it had been made a decade ago, and judging by the scratches and wear and tear that graced the surface, it had probably been used for a decade, too. Martin silenced the buzzing and gave a quiet sigh.

“We should head back.”

Jon felt reluctant to swap this moment for hormonal and pouty teenagers, but he knew he couldn’t hide away in Cathy’s Café for ever. He pulled himself to his feet, picking up his discarded rucksack that had been hung limply over the back of his chair. He tugged his coat on. The layers felt uncomfortably bunchy and he shrugged slightly, in an attempt to readjust them.

“That was nice,” said Martin conclusively, as he held the door open for Jon, who slipped past him and into the bright afternoon sun. The dark clouds were closer now, and Jon sent up a small prayer that they wouldn’t strike during his commute home.

“Yes,” Jon agreed, “It was. Thank you - not for inviting me out,” he added quickly as Martin raised an eyebrow, “just for the pleasant meal.”

“Ah, you’re welcome,” he said, a small bit of colour rising to his cheeks. The colour suited him, and it highlighted the gentle smattering of freckles that scattered his face. They returned soundlessly to the school doors, and just on time – as the bell sounded their arrival.

“I’ll see you later, Jon,” said Martin, as he walked backwards towards his office. Jon held his hand up in a wave.

“Have a good afternoon, Martin,” said Jon, and the two spun off in opposite directions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! The next chapter will be uploaded on the 12th!!  
> Kudos and comments make my day!! If you want to message me or anything, then I'm on tumblr at Buccata
> 
> Also, was this chapter just a way for me to shoe-horn Norman MacCaig????? Possibly???? Honestly, though, his work is really beautiful - there's one verse in 'Sounds of the Day' that has stuck with me for over five years:
> 
> When the door slammed shut  
> It was the end  
> Of all the sounds there are.  
> You left me,  
> Beside the quietest fire in the world
> 
> It's just *chefs kisses* Scottish poets slap guys very grateful that Nat 5 English let us study him  
> He writes some more poetry using more of the Scots language, but most are just in English.  
> 'Aunt Julia is very good' and speaks a lot about losing Scottish culture, so as a Scot I really enjoy it. Anyway, apologies for the rambling - I am much like Martin in that I realllllllly love poetry, and am also sad and gay, but mainly poetry


	6. Not a sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Martin Blackwood,” she repeated. Jon nodded. “That’s not a real name.”
> 
> “It’s a real name!” he cried, crossing his arms. “We – he bought me lunch today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah it's a day early, I don't like schedules ...  
> But I very much hope you enjoy this chapter! I think we all need something more light hearted after the last few episodes.  
> Also, this chapter is quite a bit longer than the rest - there wasn't a good place to split it!

Jon knew he looked rough that morning. There was no disguising that, and he didn’t even attempt to. His shirt was rumpled, his hair was dirty, and his eyelids hung limply down his face as he looked over his GCSE classroom.

“1984,” he said, furthering the statement by writing it out on the board behind him. “Written by George Orwell in 1948 – so, he just flipped the dates, if you want to remember that,” he added, and then thought for a moment, “You won’t get marks for that, don’t remember it.”

One of the students in front of him, who had been note taking, stopped in her tracks, and looked mildly confused. 

“It’s quite a short text, but he manages to cover a lot of authoritarian, totalitarianism and dictatorial themes in it,” he said, stretching out the last word as he stifled down a yawn. He raised his hand to cover his mouth, as if that would convince anyone that he wasn’t a walking zombie. “I have a handout with the meaning of those words for those of you who don’t take Modern Studies.”

He leant over to his desk, and protruded a bundle of stapled sheets that he had compiled the other day. He handed the pile to the girl in front of him, “take one – pass it on. There’s also a list of important quotes from the first few chapters, which we will be reading through together as a class.”

There were a few groans. He knew it could be a bit trying at times to go through the book with the whole class, but it was also a very effective and low effort way of ensuring that everyone was at the same bit. It made planning lessons much easier. “We’ll be going through chapters 1 and 2 today, and then I’ll give you a few questions for you to answer by our lesson tomorrow –“

There was a knock at the door. He turned his head to see Martin, half in – half out, holding a cup of tea and grimacing slightly. Jon blinked; he hadn’t expected to see Martin that day.

“Sorry,” he said, in a stage whisper, “I thought you had a free period.”

Jon smiled, and shook his head. “That’s alright, Mr Blackwood. Is everything okay?”

He held up the cup in his hand. “I brought you some tea.”

“Oh,” said Jon, as Martin quickly stepped in and placed the cup into his hands. He took it carefully, and he felt the gentle sensation of warmth travel through his palms. “Thank you, Mart – Mr Blackwood, that’s very kind of you.”

Martin grinned, his eyes crinkling into gentle lines as he did so. He still looked exhausted; Jon really would have to confront him about that at some point. Though, he guessed it made him quite a bit of a hypocrite if he gave Martin a lecture about the importance of a good sleep schedule, when he was currently running on empty. “No problem – I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Jon just nodded, as Martin headed for the door, giving a small wave as he closed it behind him. Jon looked down at the honey coloured liquid, seeing a warbled version of his own reflection. Through the ripples he could see that he was smiling. This seemed to be a pattern when it came to Martin. There was a cough from somewhere in the room, which immediately broke the trance he had found himself in. He looked up, and cleared his throat. A few of his students were gently smirking, and he furrowed his brow at them in confusion – they didn’t seem the take note. He took a small sip of the tea, before placing it on his desk. It was very nice.

“Right,” he said, “who wants to start us off?”

He tried to focus as his students read along in monotonous tones, taking each paragraph in turn and demonstrating their literacy – that was all he was able to get from the lesson, as the forefront of his brain was taken up by the image of steaming tea on his desk. The colour of the mug made the corner of Jon’s lips twist up into an amused smirk. It was teal, the same teal mug that Martin had been carrying and consequentially spilled the contents of down Jon’s shirt. He wondered if it was an intentional decision to bring that mug – maybe it was an inside joke between the two. Or maybe it was just a mug. He imagined Martin pottering about the staff room, chatting to fellow members of staff and laughing as he boiled the kettle. They would ask why he was making two, and he would say with a smile that it was for Jon. He blinked and shook his head – where on earth were these thoughts coming from? It was tea, it hardly needed an in-depth examination served alongside it. His job was to study and analyse text, not personal gestures. He took another sip as Julia Brine read out in clear, yet torturously slow, dictation. He gave a few nods when they felt necessary, keen to keep up the pretence that he was engaged. Occasionally he would throw in a ‘very nice’ or ‘hm’ when the silence demanded it. When the bell rang, he hardly even noticed – only clued in when a few students threw him a “Goodbye, sir”. He looked down at the copy of 1984 in his hands. He hadn’t even opened it.

The rest of the day passed by in a similar fashion, as he drifted across his classroom, falling in and out of focus. If he stayed seated for too long, his head would begin to droop down towards his desk, almost as if by a magnetic force – so he stayed on his feet when able to.

He thought of that cup of tea a lot that day.

Jon knew as he stepped into the flat that something was wrong, and that something was the denim jacket covered in badges and patches that hung off their coatrack. One of which read out, in neon green lettering ‘What the Ghost’. The word ghost was represented by its namesake. He could hear the owner in the living room, laughing alongside Georgie. The Admiral grazed by his ankles and made a sound that Jon could swear was ‘run’. He crouched down, and gave him a small scratch behind his ear. He leaned enthusiastically into the touch, and Jon savoured the moment of peace between them. However, the Admiral got bored rather quickly, and begun trotting away mindlessly towards the living room. He gave a grimaced groan and rose to his feet, aiding himself with the wall.

“She can’t actually hurt you,” he muttered quietly, in an attempt to psych himself up to face Melanie King. He hadn’t seen her in a few years, last time being when he had come up to visit Georgie, and had accidentally timed it so that he arrived as she left. The ensuing reunion between them definitely soured the one he shared with Georgie, as Jon was filled with post-argument adrenaline and Georgie was exhausted from playing referee between them. He slipped off his shoes, and shrugged his coat off. He padded gently into the hall, keen to just make a subtle run towards his bedroom and avoid any unnecessary conflicts.

“Jon,” he heard the low crone of Melanie sound. He froze mid-motion. With his back to her, he took a deep breath, and composed his features. Akin to Georgie, Melanie could be very scary when she wanted to. Jon had once joked to Georgie that the reason they liked each other so much was because they were both numb to each other’s intimidations. Georgie had yelled at him.

“Melanie,” he said through tight lips, “How are you?”

“Heard you got fired,” she said, giving an apathetic shrug. Beside her, Georgie put her head in her hands.

“I didn’t get fired,” snapped Jon, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. “I left of my volition - Why is she here?” He threw his hands towards where Melanie was sitting, but the question was for Georgie. He had hoped to keep his cool a little longer in her presence, but it seemed distance had only made her heart colder.

“She’s my friend, Jon,” said Georgie with a sigh. “I thought you’d be staying late like usual.”

“She has other friends,” said Melanie, “unlike you.”

“Melanie,” warned Georgie quietly.

“I have other friends!” exclaimed Jon. He realised how infantile he sounded as soon as he spoke, and he pressed the pads of his fingers into his eyes with a sigh. Did he have friends? Martin had taken him to lunch, and had seen him cry – friends did that, right? Were he and Martin friends? He liked his company, and he got the impression that Martin enjoyed his, or at least tolerated it enough to pretend he enjoyed it.

“You do?” they both said, in varying tones – one of soft curiosity, and one of harsh doubt.

“Yes,” he said, trying to hide the note of uncertainty in his voice. If he and Martin weren’t actually friends, then he could at least use their familiarity to his advantage. All was fair in love and war when it came to dealing with Melanie King, although, judging from their track record, it was all war.

The two women exchanged a small look of intrigued fascination, and Melanie leant forward onto her hands, and raised a questioning eyebrow. “What’s their name?”

Jon swallowed. “Martin.”

“Martin who?”

“Blackwood.”

“Martin Blackwood,” she repeated. Jon nodded. “That’s not a real name.”

“It’s a real name!” he cried, crossing his arms. “We – he bought me lunch today.”

“Why on earth would he do that?” said Melanie, with a biting sincerity.

“Because Melanie,” Jon said, “not everyone is you, and not everyone wants to punch me in the face.”

“Pretty big majority, though, huh? For my side,” she said, nodding her head as she spoke, and gesturing to herself with both thumbs. Jon rolled his eyes and let out a huff. Georgie was staring off into the distance, looking entirely done with both of them. Jon felt a small pang of guilt, and then an equal pang of annoyance when he remembered that it had been her who brought Melanie into their flat.

“I’ll leave you two to whatever it is you’re doing,” he said with a defeated huff. “Conspiring and what-not.”

“Bye,” sang Melanie, holding down the final note for extra emphasis, in case there was any doubt in Jon’s mind that he was not wanted there.

“Talk to you later, Jon,” said Georgie with an apologetic grimace. Jon understood why Melanie was there, and he couldn’t in good consciousness hold it against her – even if Melanie’s slander of him hit to close to home at times. Georgie had given up a lot when he had moved in; he hadn’t asked her too - she was just a good person. She had looked after him, and kept an eye on him, and brought him back to his feet after he had felt so brutally knocked down. It was her who had found the position at Magnus Highschool. As much as he had fought against liking the position at the start, he was finding it harder and harder to resent the role. It wasn’t Oxford, no one was pretending that. He didn’t carry the same pride in his chest that he had boasted as a lecturer, but it was teaching; it was an exchange of knowledge, and curious passion. It was seeing people engage with what he was saying, and opening their minds to a world outside their own. It was something he loved, and something he had lost, and maybe something he was beginning to find again.

He gave her a small smile, and a nod, and closed his bedroom door behind him. The thick brick walls muted the sounds of conversation, but if he strained his ears, he could make out murmuring. It was a calming sort of white noise, even if one of the conversationalist deeply resented him. He and Georgie didn’t exactly host guests frequently, so the change of atmosphere was a welcome one.

Jon never expected to sleep well – it wasn’t in his nature. Jon had dark hair, brown eyes, and didn’t sleep well. It was characteristic to him. If you put a gun to his head and asked him to name the last time he slept well, he would probably start crying. Yet, every night without fail, when that same restless exhaustion came over him, he felt surprised. Like he had forgotten every past night, every sweaty, fidgety sunrise that he had welcomed with heavy eyes. Why would tonight be any different?

He thought of honey coloured liquid, and the feeling of warmth that the cup had carried. The soft mellow song of Martin’s voice as he said his name, and the easy smile he carried. Jon felt a small pang in his chest as he envisioned it. It was funny almost, how quickly Martin had made an impact on his life. The same Martin he had complained about, and snapped at, only a month prior. Now he was staring blankly at his ceiling and rewinding his small wave as he had taken his leave. It didn’t mean anything – what would it even mean? Did that mean something?

He shook his head.

People remembered kindness, that was natural. Jon was rarely the recipient of benevolence, so it was only to be expected that he would find himself fixating on it so heavily. It didn’t mean anything that his lips were curled slightly upwards in the darkness of his room. It didn’t.

Jon tried to avoid the staffroom as much as possible. It was a dirty, dreary room, filled with musty worn furniture and ominous odours from the fridge. Not to mention that there was always a constant stream of staff members toeing in and out of it, all keen to make pleasantries and “check in” with him. Whatever that meant. Why Mrs Graham from the art department needed to check in with him, despite them never having exchanged more than hellos, was beyond him. But, in theme to his character, he hadn’t slept well the night prior – and he very much did not want to shell out three pounds for a coffee from the local café, so the staffroom pot would have to suffice. Besides, it was the end of the day, and he imagined the room would be quiet, and if he were lucky, completely desolate. And it was, he noted upon entry, minus one – the figure of Martin lay slumped against the dusty electric blue couch that sat in the middle of the room, pressed tightly against a coffee table with a broken leg. He was asleep, as far as Jon could tell – he wasn’t dead, he knew that at least, as his chest rose and fell in steady rhythm. He didn’t look entirely comfortable, his neck awkwardly slumped against the low rise back of the couch, and an expression of irritation was apparent on his face, despite being deep in slumber. Jon found himself tip toeing over to where he lay, feeling very much like how he felt as a kid, sneaking down to the kitchen during the night to steal an extra biscuit or to take a swig from the milk carton. It never mattered how skilled he was at avoiding the one creaky floorboard next to the stairs, or how slowly he broke the seal of the fridge - his grandmother, despite her age, had had immaculate hearing, and always confronted him about it the next day over breakfast.

“Martin,” he hissed, standing at the foot of the couch, looming over him. Martin didn’t stir, and his chest continued to rise in the pattern of sleep. He tried again, his voice cracking slightly as he raised it. Still nothing. He let out a huff, and walked over to behind Martin, and gave a gentle shake to his shoulder. There was a sound of exclamation, as Martin started awake, his torso shooting up from the couch. He spun his neck round quickly to face Jon, and furrowed his brows in confusion. “Jon?”

“You were asleep,” he said plainly. “I thought you might not want to be.”

His brows furrowed deeper, and then he sighed, his shoulders dropping as he did so. He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the already dishevelled curls. “Right,” he coughed, “thank you.”

“Why were you asleep, Martin?” asked Jon.

“I – I was tired,” said Martin plainly, pinching the sleep from his eyes.

“That much I gathered,” said Jon, “tiredness usually predominates sleep – at least in most cases.”

“Am I not allowed to sleep?” snapped Martin. He closed his eyes for a moment, then dropped his head into his hands, that held him up against him knees. “I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to snap.”

Jon hesitated for a moment, and then worked his way around the couch so that he was sitting beside the other man. “I think I’ve earned a few snappy comments, Martin. It’s fine.”

Martin didn’t say anything, as his shoulders rose and fell in time with his breathing.

“Is everything okay, Martin?” asked Jon quietly. There was a beat, and then Martin raised his head from his lap. He had obviously been composing himself, as he gave him a gentle smile. It didn’t look like Martin’s smile; it looked like Martin pretending to do Martin’s smile. Jon frowned in response.

“I’m fine, Jon,” he said. He didn’t want to press the other man, and maybe a few weeks ago he would’ve accepted that statement at face value; any excuse not to have to sit down and talk about personal feelings. But he remembered how kind Martin had been when he had been distraught. How he had joked, and comforted him, and took him out to lunch and chatted to him like they were friends. Maybe they were. Jon thought back to the feeling of Martin placing his hand down on his knee – a sign of physical assurance that he was there, that he cared. It would only be right for Jon to do the same. In true copy-cat fashion, he placed his own hand down on Martin’s knee and gave a squeeze. He heard a small intake of breath from Martin, and saw the whites of his eyes widen slightly.

“You’re going to have to forgive me if I don’t believe you,” said Jon, with a warm laugh. Martin tried to laugh, too, but it came out as more of a sigh.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” he said, avoiding meeting his eyes.

“I figured as much.”

Martin drummed his feet against the ground, and let out a series of shaky breaths. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes and let out a groan, which then turned into a sigh. He dropped his hands against his chest, and crossed them tight, pulling his shoulders up to his ears as he did so. It looked like he was physically fighting down whatever it was he was willing himself to say.

“Take your time,” said Jon, and he gave Martin’s knee another gentle squeeze. Martin made a small smile, and looked up to meet his stare.

“You know when we all went out for drinks?” he asked. Jon nodded. “Well, that night, someone broke into my flat. I woke up, and my lock was broken, and a bunch of stuff was missing – and I was just sleeping! The whole time!”

“Martin,” said Jon softly, “Why didn’t you say?”

Martin laughed coldly. “Please, everybody already thinks I’m pathetic – I know you did when we first met. Stupid Martin – Pathetic Martin, can’t even sleep in his bed because he’s too scared,” he cracked out. He sighed, and there was a moment of silence between the two. “He was in my house, Jon. He broke into my house, and I didn’t even notice.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Of course I did, I just –“ He let out a shaky breath. “There wasn’t anything they could do – they set up an alert, but it isn’t like I have CCTV or any evidence for them to go off. It’s not like he even took anything that expensive – I don’t own anything expensive, but it’s just …”

“Violating,” said Jon, picking up where he let off. Martin nodded weakly. It was strange, thought Jon, to see Martin like this. He seemed so small, and frail – even though he was a far stretch from both. Jon wanted to wrap his arms around his frame and hold him tight – but he couldn’t do that.

“Stay with me and Georgie tonight.”

“Jon –“

“I can’t make what happened not have happened,” he said, cutting off Martins protests, “but I can try and help. I can try and give you a good night’s sleep at least.”

“I can’t impose on you two like that,” Martin argued, looking entirely defeated. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“You aren’t imposing,” insisted Jon, “I’m asking – I’m saying, Martin. Our couch is a pull-out bed, we have a spare duvet. You can meet the Admiral.”

Martin made a sound that could have almost been a laugh. “I do like cats.”

“Then it’s decided,” said Jon with a firm nod.

“Thank you, Jon,” said Martin. Weight fell against Jon’s hand, and he looked down to see Martin’s hand resting gently atop of his. It looked so right there, and Jon felt a tug to turn his hand over, and wrap his fingers between Martin’s. He didn’t, instead he just stared, feeling the gentle feeling of warmth spread through his body that was akin to the feeling of holding a warm cup of tea. He looked up to Martin, who was staring forward, lost in the distance. Jon’s eyes followed the gentle curve of his profile, tracing the ebb and flow of his eyes, to his nose, to his lips. They were gently downturned, and it just screamed wrong at Jon. He found he quite hated seeing Martin look this utterly beaten.

Martin seemed to sense his eyes upon him, and he met his gaze easily. Jon blinked. He felt oddly seen in that instant, more so than he maybe ever had. He felt solid, and real, and he felt like he was standing with his back to a firing squad – no, it didn’t feel like that at all. This vulnerability didn’t feel like someone was peeling away his skin, it felt … it felt good, he decided. Jon read a lot – he knew that there were a million words, and a hundred ways to place those words in perfect harmony to express how it felt, but he didn’t need to. It was simple, and it was good, and that was all it needed to be.

“Of course,” he said, his voice sounding too soft to be his own. “Of course.”

He was outside Martin’s flat, waiting for him as he packed a bag. Jon had been more than willing to come up and help – but he had been very frantically shut down by Martin, who had reddened and stammered out a number of excuses. Most of them had been along the lines of his embarrassment over its state. Jon thought of his own flat. He thought of the leak in the kitchen, and the pile of dirty dishes that loomed over the sink, and the thick layer of dust that had glued itself to the skirting boards, and the obstacle course of shoes that lined the hallway floor. Jesus, maybe he should have headed straight home and done a quick tidy. Martin wouldn’t judge him, though. Jon wasn’t sure where that rock-solid certainty came from, but he struggled to find a shred of evidence that might suggest otherwise. Either way, he shot Georgie a quick text with a pleading message to give the flat a tidy. A cold breeze picked up suddenly, and Jon brought his arms up to his chest and gave a gentle shiver. His teeth chattered in protest, and he begun to bounce up and down on the balls of his feet to keep warm. A dog walker ambled past, and their Pomeranian curiously tugged its way in his direction. Jon never admitted it, because most people called him deranged when he did, but he wasn’t the biggest fan of dogs. They were erratic, and bouncy and overly energetic and Jon found them quite tiring. Give him a cat any day, and the two would pass out in tandem on the couch – but dogs, they would be pleading for walks, and attention, and Jon was not the most dependable character when it came to providing interest or activity. The dog walker gave him an apologetic look as he edged out of the leashes allowance, and she gave a gentle tug on the reins to bring the dog back against her.

A door slammed shut, and then Jon saw Martin bounding down the steps that led up to his tenement block. He had changed out of his work clothes, and had swapped the crumpled button up shirt for a blue crew neck sweater, that sat underneath an oversized denim jacket. A rucksack swung off of his left shoulder, and he held it in place with his hands. He gave Jon a smile as he approached, and Jon gave a solid wave.

“Sorry if I kept you waiting long,” said Martin as the two took off in the direction of the tube station. “I couldn’t find a clean pair of socks for the life of me – not that I don’t do my washing,” he added quickly, face flushing slightly. “I clean my clothes.”

“Socks exist outside of our realm,” said Jon plainly, looking left and right as they crossed the street. “It’s fine, though. You weren’t gone that long.”

The tube station was just opposite them, and they made the motions they made every morning as they passed through the turnstile, and down the escalators. The air was always close in the underground, and it always felt like what oxygen would feel like if you were to describe it. During the summer rush it was almost unbearable, and felt akin to breathing through a straw. Jon had stayed local during his first summer in that city. London was good like that; most tourists just assumed that all that the place had to offer was based in and around Buckingham palace and Trafalgar Square. There were hundreds of nooks and cranny’s in the city, scattered across the map; pubs in old warehouses, antique stores hidden down alleyways, and old military graveyards scattered along walkways. There was a rich history to the city, that was screaming out to be explored, to be uncovered, to be learnt. Jon hadn’t needed to travel far from his flat to find something of intrigue.

They boarded their tube, and fell into seats parallel to each other. Looking at him, Jon could see the nerves that etched across his face, and in the window behind him, he saw his own face, equally riddled with anxiety. He had never had someone stay over – his grandmother had forbidden it under her roof. She said that one child was enough, and didn’t need a swarm of them coming into her home to terrorize her. He hadn’t exactly participated in university hook-ups, and one-night stands; that had never been something he had been keen to involve himself in. That fact still stood true to this day. Sex was just not something that seemed appealing to him, no matter how many ways people tried to sell it to him. He and Georgie had tried once, a few months into their relationship. Jon had thought he was going to be sick, and that obviously had shown on his face as Georgie had stopped to comfort him. She had been understanding, and for that he had been thankful. He very much doubted his disposition to it had changed at all over the years.

He wanted to say something to Martin, but nothing came to mind – yet he found he wanted to say that nothingness to him. He liked the way Martin sounded when he replied, always a tinged amused and attentive.

“H-how is Norman MacCaig?” he asked, pulling at a loose thread from the cuff of his coat.

Martin gave him a puzzled look. “He’s been dead for a few years now, so not good.”

Jon made an indigent sound. “I – I know that! How is – How is reading his work?”

Martin smiled gently. “Oh, it’s been – it’s been good! If you ever did want to read some of his work I would recommend ‘Sounds of the Day’ or ‘Visiting Hour’. That one is quite sad, though.” He gave a small laugh. “I read it a lot after my mother passed away.”

Jon blinked. “I’m sorry to hear that, Martin.”

He shrugged. “It’s fine, honestly – it was a few years ago now.”

“Were you close?” asked Jon. He was never sure what type of questions were good when following up something like that. He had been asked it a lot when his Grandmother had passed – they always upped their sympathy when he told them that she had raised him. ‘Were you close’ was usually asked when his colleagues were gauging what level of interest to pay in his loss.

Martin pulled his lips tight. “I’m really sorry, Jon – I just don’t feel comfortable getting into it at the moment.”

Jon shook his head quickly, and felt a pang of guilt shoot through his stomach. “Oh, god, Martin – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –“

Now Martin was shaking his head. “No, no, Jon – it’s fine, honestly. It’s just pretty heavy stuff and – and we’re on a tube carriage.”

Jon looked around. It wasn’t crowded like it was during rush hour, but it wasn’t desolate like after they had been at Wetherspoons. A woman sitting across from him gave him a curious look as he met her gaze. Londoners took heavy offense to being looked at.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “that, uh – that makes sense.”

The tube began to slow, and the bright lights of the platform shone through into the carriage. He brought himself to his feet, and gave a hand to Martin without thinking. Martin blinked, and took it, allowing Jon to pull him to his feet. His grip was large, and almost entirely enveloped Jon’s bony hand.

“This is our stop,” said Jon, dropping Martin’s hand. He noticed the absence of warmth immediately. Martin nodded, and followed Jon as he led them out of the carriage and towards the exit. It was a short walk to his flat from the station, and they filled the commute with conversation. When they got to his door, Jon felt the full extent of his anxiety. Martin was going to be in his home, he was going to see where he lived, and he was going to be sleeping there. This was an awful idea, he thought to himself as he slotted his key home and opened it out into the stairwell. The main light that hung over the entrance didn’t work properly, and it flickered on and off as they started on their ascent towards his flat.

“Jon?” came the sound of Georgie’s voice as he welcomed Martin inside. He could hear her padding towards them. “Oh – sorry, I didn’t realise you had someone with you.”

“Oh,” said Jon simply. “Uh, Georgie this is Martin – Martin this is Georgie.”

“Oh, you didn’t make him up,” said Georgie. Jon glowered at her.

“Of course I didn’t make him up!” he exclaimed, aggressively toeing his shoes off. Beside him, Martin shrugged off his coat, and then draped it over his arm. Jon took it from his hands without asking, and hung it over the coatrack with a bit more force than required.

“Hi,” said Martin, with a small wave. Georgie smiled at him warmly.

“Hiya,” she said. “I’m Jon’s roommate. It’s nice to meet you. I assume you two work together?”

Martin nodded. “Yeah, I work up in the guidance department. Jon mentioned that you worked in entertainment.”

Jon gave a laugh. “He’s being coy – he listens to the show.”

“Jon,” Martin hissed quietly as he shot him a wide-eyed look, his face quickly warming in embarrassment. Jon held up his hands and gave an indigent snort.

Georgie’s smile turned to a beaming grin. “You a fan?”

Somehow, the shade of red that splashed across his cheeks deepened. “I – uh, yes.”

“Hah!” she cried, and shoved an accusatory finger in Jon’s direction. “Take that Jon – not so ‘trite’ now are we?”

“That was five years ago!” he said, throwing his whole body into the reminder. Martin laughed beside him.

“Five years of pain,” she said, placing her hand on her heart. “Allow me to enjoy that your friend is a fan.”

“Anyway,” Jon said with a clap and a dismissive eyeroll, “Martin is staying with us for the night – I hope that’s okay.”

Georgie raised her eyebrow. “Like a sleepover? Jon, no offense - but you’re thirty.”

“You’re thirty?” said Martin with an incredulous expression.

“It’s not a sleepover! He just needs somewhere to stay for the night,” He snapped, then spun his head round to face Martin, “Yes – I’m thirty, how old did you think I was?”

“Don’t answer that, Martin,” Georgie said quickly with a stern and solemn shake of her head. “Jon ages outside of the usual passage of time – it’s a trick question.”

Martin was looking between them with an expression not too dissimilar to a puppies when made to pick between parents. He was clutching his bag to his chest, like it would give him some protection against Jon and Georgie’s manic conversational energy.

“Ignore her,” said Jon, “follow me, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

He led Martin through the narrow hallway and towards the living room that sat at the end. Martin gave Georgie a small wave and a goodbye as he passed her. He watched Martin as he entered the room; as he took in all the small knick-knacks and photo frames and various items that made up their home. There wasn’t much of Jon in that room – minus a few photos of him and Georgie from their university days, and some of Jon’s books that had been forgotten on coffee tables and shelves. Jon gestured for Martin to hand over his rucksack, and he did so inelegantly, his hand getting slightly caught in the straps. Jon took it with a small smile, and placed it on the armchair.

“It pulls out,” he said, pointing towards the couch. “Do you want to sort it out now, or wait until after dinner?”

“Dinner?” said Martin with a surprised expression, turning to face him suddenly from his explorative gaze of the room.

Jon nodded, and cocked his head to the side. “You eat dinner, right?”

“Y – Yeah, yeah, of course – I just …” He faltered. “After dinner is fine – is good, yes.”

“I must warn you,” he started, “I’m not the best cook.”

Martin smiled fondly at him. “Oh - I’m sure that’s not true.”

Jon blinked, and coughed slightly. “Well – yes, I – I will let you be the judge of that.”

Jon heard a sound from below him, and saw the Admiral jumping up against his calves. He gave a smile, and leant down to pick him up. The Admiral nuzzled deeply against his collarbone, tickling Jon’s neck slightly. “Ah! Martin, this is the Admiral.”

The look on Martin’s face almost floored Jon. His eyes were wide, and his grin was wider. He looked like a child on Christmas day who had just seen their shiny new toy. Slowly, he crept forward, being careful not to disturb the cat.

“Can I – ?” He gestured with his hands the motion of petting, and Jon nodded with a smile. Martin closed the gap between them as he took a step closer. Very gingerly, Martin placed his hand up for the Admiral to sniff. He did so, and keenly pressed his head into the other man’s palm. Martin made a small sound of happiness as he did so, as did the Admiral.

“He likes you,” said Jon quietly. Martin shot a quick grin up at Jon, and then Jon was suddenly incredibly aware of how close the two were standing. He could feel the brush of fabric from Martin’s jeans against his legs, and when Martin moved his hands to appraise the Admiral, Jon could feel the movement of his arms against his own. Jon couldn’t help but stare at Martin as he stood beside him, his attention entirely taken by the Admiral. He looked different underneath the lights of his home; softer, somehow. No longer was he washed out under the harsh fluorescent lights of the school, or hidden by dingy pub lighting. He looked warm, and homely as he stood beside Jon – and, Jon found himself thinking, looking quite beautiful. The thought might have taken Jon by shock, or confusion, but it didn’t feel strange. It felt like something he had always been aware of, but had never given time to the thought.

“He’s a very good cat,” said Martin softly, standing back up to his full height. Jon quickly pulled his eyes away, and nodded. He leant down to release the Admiral, who scurried off in the direction of the couch.

“I – I should make a start on dinner,” he said, feeling very much like he had just been pulled out of a deep sleep. He didn’t wait for Martin to reply before he stumbled off in the direction of the kitchen. The bucket underneath the leak was getting dangerously full. He lifted it up with a grunt, and tossed the brown liquid down the sink drain. They would really have to call it in soon – or get a bigger bucket. The latter option definitely seemed the easiest – anything seemed preferable when it came to calling their landlord. He wiped his hands on his trousers, they were surprisingly sweaty, and opened his cupboards to take a check on what options where available for them that night.

Beans seemed to be a strong contender, followed closely by soup. The logo read ‘has to be Heinz’ but Jon felt very strongly that it did not in fact have to be Heinz. He couldn’t serve old canned soup to Martin. What were his options? Limited, albeit, but not hopeless. He thought back to his childhood, spent in the kitchen with his Grandmother – she had always said “If you have garlic and oil, then you have a meal”. Now seemed to be a perfect time to test that theory. Jon reached into the cupboard and pulled out Georgie’s neglected mortar and pestle. It had been a gift from Melanie after her trip to India. Georgie had been given strict instructions to not let Jon near the thing.

“What she doesn’t know,” murmured Jon to the room.

When he was done, he was left with what one would be able to confidently assess as pesto pasta – simple, yes, but also very delicious. When he carried it through into the living room, where the dinner table sat, Martin was busy reading something on his phone. He looked up at the sound of crockery being placed against wood, and he gave Jon an appreciative smile.

“It’s not anything fancy,” he prefaced, as he placed a fork and spoon beside their bowls. Martin was already gently shaking his head as he walked over.

“Jon, it looks lovely,” he said. “It smells delicious – thank you.”

“Oh,” said Jon. “Thank you, Martin – you’re welcome.”

The two sat down to eat. Jon felt oddly nervous to eat in front of the other man. He knew he wasn’t a sloppy eater. His grandmother had made sure that learning correct table manners was a priority, and he had spent most meals getting his elbows swatted and his spine prodded at – a not so gentle reminder to fix his posture. However, it still felt incredibly intimate with just the two of them alone in the room. Martin seemed quite at ease, though; there was no need for Jon to feel awkward. It was just pasta. Even so, he came to regret that he hadn’t put music on or something, as the silence felt almost deafening as they ate. He grew increasingly and painfully aware of his own breathing – did he always breathe that loudly? Why had nobody said anything? How did his students get any work done, when he was sitting behind his desk auditioning for the Wolf from ‘The Three Little Pigs’? He tried to slow down his breaths, and quieten them – but then his lungs began to feel tight, and he felt his cheeks turn warm. It was just breathing, why was he struggling? He looked over again at Martin; still perfectly content, and seemingly unaware of what Jon could only describe as panting. He looked down at his bowl, and was dismayed to see that he had hardly made a dent. He was going to suffocate before the meal was over.

“This is really nice,” said Martin, as he expertly spun his fork through the spaghetti strands. Jon allowed himself to take in a big gulp of air as he spoke.

“Thank you,” rushed Jon. “I used to cook with my Grandmother when I was younger. I – ah, haven’t in a while, though. Cooked – that is.”

Martin nodded. “Did you see your Granny a lot? We – me and my mum; we, uh, never visited family much.”

“Oh – she actually raised me,” explained Jon. He never much enjoyed getting into the whole “Orphan Thing”, it tended to be famously difficult to deter conversations from that once it was announced. Most people heard orphan: and envisioned some emotionally ravaged and skeletal Victorian child – and were always surprised to see a fully grown man call himself an orphan.

“Oh,” said Martin. Jon watched as he worried his bottom lip, as he searched for the right response. Jon was never sure what exactly it was he wanted people to say in response – condolences usually came. But he had been so young and only remembered their faces from photos. It never really felt like his loss, just a loss he had been found in.

Conversation died down again after that, and the two finished the meal in silence.

Jon got to work sorting out the pull-out bed, as Martin washed the dishes. It was oddly domestic, and he was struck by how comfortable it was having Martin potter about his home. Martin just seemed to radiate ease, and it spread through the small flat, hitting Jon with a sensation of warm peace. He shook the pillow into place inside its patterned case, and threw it gently down against the headboard of the couch – now bed. Martin returned shortly, and he wiped his hands on his trouser legs as he entered, dusting off any remaining suds from the dishes.

“That’s the dishes done,” he announced. “I think I put them in the right place?”

“Oh – don’t worry about it,” Jon said with a wave of his hand, “we don’t really have a set cupboard for bowls and what-not, just wherever there’s space.”

Martin gave a nod. “Well if you are looking for your bowl, it’s next to your hoard of beans.”

Jon scrunched up his nose. “I always forget I have them,” he said with a laugh. “I need to start writing reverse shopping lists – just beans in all capitals, or something.”

Martin snorted, and his shoulders bounced gently. “That might be a shout – thank you for sorting out the bed, by the way. I mean, thank you for everything, but – uh, yeah.”

He smiled. “Of course, Martin.” Then with a gesture towards the old television set that sat in the corner, “Do you want to watch something?”

“Oh, yeah – yes, what did you have in mind?”

They decided on a Cold Case style documentary. It turned out that Martin was also a bit of a mystery and true crime fanatic – but Jon felt that tracked, what with him being a fan of What the Ghost. They had chatted through most of the first episode, weaving in and out of focus on the show and on each other. Martin shared a few very out of the box theories, that led Jon to think that this was not the first time that he had watched that particular show. By the 2nd episode, conversation died down, as Martin kept fighting down yawns. Jon wasn’t surprised. By what he had been told, it had been over a fortnight since he had last slept. Which is why he shouldn’t have been surprised when he noticed weight fall against his shoulder, and the soft brush of Martin’s curls graze against his neck. His body froze, and he felt his heart drumming against his throat in an erratic fashion. He didn’t dare crane his neck, for fear of disturbing the other man, but he strained his eyes to see that Martin’s were closed, and his dark lashes fluttered gently as breathed in deeply. He could feel the exhalation against his skin, it was warm. Martins hands lay loosely crossed against his chest, and Jon wondered, not for the first time, what it would like to hold them. He wondered how it would feel to run his fingers across his knuckles, drawing figure of eights between the bones and connecting the lines between his freckles. He wondered how his hands would feel pressed into his, how they would feel brushing against his side as they walked, or how it would feel just there – just where they were sitting. Jon wanted to reach out. He wanted to drape his arms around Martin and pull him tight, he wanted Martin to know that he wanted him there. He didn’t know why he wanted that, but he did. Maybe, he was beginning to realise, that he had wanted that for a while now.

There was a reason, he knew that. Somewhere in his mind, hidden under cobwebs, was a word – an explanation. He tried to catch it, to bring it to clarity; but it felt similar to being a child, spotting a particularly pretty shell in the ocean and trying to pick it up, and just disturbing the dusty surface of the sandy shore. The water had turned murky, and as much as he tried to push the dirt aside, he only made it worse. Every now and then, the sun would reflect against the congregated white curves of the shell, only to be muted by a frantic hand as he broke the surface of the water.

What he did know, was that he felt happy around Martin. Did he deserve that, though? Martin was … he was Martin, he was soft conversation, and laughter lines. Jon wasn’t anything like that.

No, no – no. He was not going to go down that road. He wasn’t going to sit there and let himself indulge in his self-loathing, and he was absolutely not going to use Martin to facilitate that. That wasn’t right. Martin was an adult, an adult with full autonomous will – Martin made the decision to talk to him, to be kind to him, to be there for him.

Martin made Jon happy, and Jon hoped that maybe, one day, he might be able to make Martin happy, too. He wanted to stay there, in that moment, with the feeling of him against his side. But he didn’t want to enjoy it like that. He placed his hands on Martin’s arms, and held him in place as he slowly rose up to his feet. He gently rested him against one of the pillows, which he willingly accepted as he fell upon it. Jon pulled at the duvet that lay discarded at the foot of the bed and draped it over Martin. He quietly padded his way over to his bedroom door, being careful to turn the lights off as he left.

“Goodnight, Jon,” came a mumbled voice from the room.

Jon smiled. “Sleep well, Martin.”


	7. Game night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well,” said Jon, “we wouldn’t be behind if you hadn’t said that Leonardo Davinci wrote the Davinci Code.”  
> “I heard Davinci and I panicked!” explained Martin. “He was a well-practiced man – literature doesn’t seem that out of his wheelhouse.”  
> “It came out in 2003, Martin,” sighed Jon, with a harmless eyeroll. “Roll the dice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! I hope you have all had a wonderful week! hope you enjoy the new chapter xx

Jon awoke with surprising ease that morning. He beat his alarm clock to the punch, and turned it off to save his future self from having to hear the incessant bleating of the thing. He pushed himself out of bed, and stumbled through into the hall. What Jon didn’t expect to see at 6.45 that morning was Martin and Georgie in the kitchen, chatting and making breakfast. Jon hung back, and allowed himself to watch Martin for a moment, as he smiled and moved around the compact room. He looked better than he had in a long time; his eyes moved with his face in attentive rhythm and they shared that same sparkle they had a few weeks prior. It was wonderful what a good nights sleep could do.

Martin seemed to have a sixth sense designed especially for noticing when Jon was looking at him, as he turned his head to face him and beamed a bright smile in his direction. Jon wasn’t surprised when he found himself smiling back.

“Jon,” he said, “Good morning! We made, uh, well – we made toast. Do you want toast? I mean, it’s your bread so maybe I shouldn’t be offering it up – “

“Oh,” said Jon, his voice raw from sleep, “Toast would be wonderful.”

“Wonderful?” said Georgie with a raised eyebrow. “It’s just toast.”

“It’s – ah, well – shush,” mumbled Jon, as he felt his cheeks warm. He turned his attention back to Martin. “Martin – did you sleep okay?”

He looked up at him from where he was buttering his slice of toast. “Oh, yes – god, probably the best I’ve slept in weeks. Thank you.”

He finished buttering and handed Jon the plate, which he took with a grateful nod.

“So,” began Georgie, as the three made their way towards the table, “Martin was telling me about how you two met.”

“Oh god,” he groaned. Martin shot him an apologetic grimace.

“So, apparently,” she continued, steepling her fingers against her chin, “Martin here – you know, gentle giant Martin - is the same man who _maimed_ and _scarred_ you with coffee. That’s wild, huh?”

“I never said maimed,” argued Jon weakly. “I – I may have slightly, just very slightly, exaggerated the, uh, the consequences of that day.”

“Slightly?” teased Martin over his cup of coffee. Jon balked at him with blinking eyes.

“It’s not even 7am,” he reminded, “and I’m being ganged up on already.”

Georgie laughed. “We’re just messing with you, Jon. I think it’s very sweet that you two started with a physical assault, and are now having sleepovers.”

“Wasn’t a sleepover,” said Jon sternly, as Martin laughed quietly beside him.

“An adult sleepover,” she tried instead, as Jon took a badly timed sip of his coffee. He spluttered loudly, as the hot liquid went down the wrong way. He coughed harshly, and Martin gave a considerate thump to his back.

“That’s _much_ worse, Georgie!” he squeaked, when he found enough air to do so. “Why are you even awake right now?”

She shrugged. “I wanted to chat to Martin before you two headed off to work. You aren’t usually the most willing host so I didn’t know when I would get to see him next. He’s very sweet.”

Martin reddened deeply, and took a long sip of his coffee. “I - Thank you.”

“Well, I, uh – well, I hope that if, uh, if Martin did want to maybe, possibly, come over again then that would be, ah – it would be quite nice,” said Jon, as he made direct eye contact with his plate.

“That was beautifully said, Jon,” said Georgie with a quiet nod. “Martin, if you would like a more concrete invitation, then let me just say – come back.”

Jon lifted his head to offer her a scowl. She just winked. It was too early to be dealing with her, he decided.

“Thank you,” said Martin, “For - for both invitations.”

The rest of breakfast passed in steady conversation, until the time became more apparent – and both Jon and Martin quickly rushed to get ready and out the door.

The two stepped out of the tenement building, and into the bitter morning air. There was never really a still, or quite time in London – but there was a sweet spot just before the morning rush started that could almost present itself as peaceful. The street was bright, and Jon felt incredibly glad for the fact that morning commutes were no longer set in the milky purple saturation that graced Winter. Jon bundled his hands into his pockets, and drew his coat tighter around him. Spring may have arrived, but that fact meant very little in Britain when it came to warmth.

“Thank you again, Jon,” said Martin. “I, uh – I really needed that.”

“Of course,” said Jon. “It’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

“Yeah – friends,” he said, with a small nod. “You’re a – you’re a good friend, Jon.”

He spoke those words with such soft, yet strong sincerity; and Jon felt his chest flutter. He smiled, but said nothing.

“Speaking of friends,” continued Martin slowly. “Would it be okay if you didn’t mention me staying over at yours to Tim – or Sasha? They, uh – well, they have a habit of taking things out of context.”

Jon laughed. “Yes – I can imagine that. I won’t mention anything.”

“Uh, still on the subject of Tim,” continued Martin. “He has like a – a games night type thing. He and Sasha do it every month. Well, I was, uh – I was wondering if maybe you would want to come?”

“To games night?”

“Yes – it’s usually just the three of us, so it’s not like a – a big thing, or anything. But if you came as my partner – not partner! Just, like, team member – yeah, then we could play something else that isn’t Charades or Monopoly.” Martin paused for breath after rushing the statement out. “It’s mainly just drinking and chatting, though.”

“Would Tim and Sasha want me there?” asked Jon. He didn’t want to intrude on their thing – or be a third wheel, as they all chatted and shared inside jokes. Drinks at Wetherspoons had been different – there were more people, so it was less intimate, and it was in a bar, so doubly less intimate. Going into someone else’s house felt incredibly personal. Did he know Tim well enough to go into his house? The two had spoken on very rare occasions, and they seemed to have quite contrasting personalities. But, then again, so did he and Martin – and, well ….

“Yeah – of course, they like you,” said Martin quickly. “They say nice things about you, anyway.”

“You guys talk about me?” said Jon, with a raised eyebrow. He didn’t want to think about the kind of things they would be saying – there weren’t that many nice things to say.

“Nothing bad, honest!” remedied Martin, as he waved both his hands in the air – as if trying to dispel any negative connotations that floated around them. “But you’ve come up in passing a few times.”

Jon gave a small self-deprecating laugh, as they passed through the tube turnstiles. “At least I’m interesting enough to talk about.”

“Shush,” said Martin, “You can’t be mean to yourself before 8am.”

“Is that a rule?” smirked Jon.

“It is now,” he declared, with a self-satisfactory nod. “So – do you want to come?”

Jon paused for thought, and then nodded. “As long as you’re sure it’s okay with them, then yes – that sounds like it could be fun.

Martin smiled. “Cool – that’s, uh, that’s cool.”

They made their way deeper into the underground. It was busy down in the tunnels, but he made sure to stay close to Martin as they navigated their way through. The morning rush was always hell, and never seemed to get any easier. It was like navigating through a constantly moving maze, where all the dead ends were bitter commuters, blocking the way and sighing heavily. Businessmen with earpieces floated through the crowd, their internal high horses keeping them moving swiftly through the low-level workers. Fashionable ladies, who teetered quickly through the tiled tunnels in their high heeled shoes, pulled faces of disgust as fellow commuters dared brush against their leather bags. They gave huffs that implied the bag was worth more than them. If the world didn’t manage to drill into your head that you were less than material objects, then the people who served that ideal certainly would. Then there were the weary workers, whose wrinkles shirts and scuffed shoes told stories of gruelling 10-hour long shifts, and incomsumerate funds to feed the family that society had told them they needed to be happy. It was funny how all those contradicting characters managed to fit into a carriage on the underground. So many conflicting lives and dilemmas, squeezed together like ill-fitting sardines.

Jon’s frame was pushed against one of the handrails, and he felt the cool metal press into him, uncomfortably. Martin gave Jon a grimaced yet sympathetic face, as he watched Jon contort his body to fit the small space provided. Martin was luckier, in that his large frame meant that it was more difficult for people to push him to the side – but he managed to carry himself in such a way that it looked like he was taking up less space than Jon’s skeletal form. Jon tried to push all thoughts aside of how being pressed in from all sides felt very much like what he imagined being buried alive would feel. It was a mental exercise game he played with himself every morning called _‘whatever you do – don’t think about it’._ He wasn’t very good at it.

The week passed.

It had been truly unremarkable, very much like most weeks. He had chased down stray essays, trudged through a countless stream of emails, and drank weak staffroom filter coffee. Well, the last part wasn’t always true. It seemed to have become a routine for Martin to pop into his classroom during his free periods with a cup of tea, and some small anecdote to make Jon laugh. It was a nice change of routine, and Jon found himself looking forward to those short conversations more and more as they passed. Sometimes Martin had something important to mention, like upcoming school events – that, in fairness, Jon really should have known about before. But, mostly, they just talked about nothing. Jon had never been one for small talk; why did it matter how someone’s commute had been, or what they had eaten for dinner the past night? But when it came to talking to Martin, he found that he wanted to know those things. He liked the way Martin rambled on, branching off onto verbal detours and landing in unrelated titbits and stories.

Martin had also gotten into the habit of texting Jon random videos, and literature based memes – which had then sparked Martin into trying to explain to Jon what a meme was before Jon replied with a very exclamation mark heavy message exclaiming that he knew what they were, and that he was only thirty, thank you very much. The most recent one had been a 1984 one, with a photo of a shadowy figure sitting down with a distorted text bar reading ‘Rats ate my face, can’t have shit in Oceania’. Jon had snorted loudly upon opening that one, prompting his class to all turn to him with a curious expressions. He had been worn down quickly into showing it to the class – which he excused on the basis that it was technically related to the course work.

** To Martin: ** The class review is in, and apparently, it’s a dank meme.

** To Jon: ** Do you know what dank means????

** To Martin: ** I know what dank means!!!!!

Honestly.

It was Friday when he bumped into Tim in the hallway between classes. He had been on his way to the printer to photocopy some of the textbook questions for homework. Tim was hard to miss; he dressed in bright colours, and sauntered everywhere like a looming and cocky giant. He was even harder to miss when he called out to Jon excitedly.

“Jon! Just the man I was looking for.”

Jon blinked. He had spoken to Tim a few times, but was still always surprised by the man’s demeanour that was somehow both blasé and intense. “Oh – hello, Tim.”

“Martin told me that you’re going to be joining us tonight,” said Tim, giving Jon’s shoulder a gentle nudge. Jon reddened slightly, and gave a short nod.

“As long as that’s okay with the rest of you all,” said Jon, running his bottom lip between his teeth. Tim swatted his hand through the air.

“The more the merrier – and the more people, the less chance we have to play Monopoly again,” laughed Tim. “Sasha is the only one who understands the rules – I just like to make it rain with the money.” He gave a shrug. “Apparently you don’t get points for that.”

Jon gave a small laugh. “I don’t think Monopoly is a point-based game.”

Tim pulled a face. “You and Sasha can play Monopoly then – me and Martin will play something fun; like Mousetrap, or strip poker.” Jon’s eyes went wide, and Tim laughed. “Don’t worry – it’s a PG evening. Usually.”

“Right,” said Jon, as he hoisted up rucksack higher up on his arms, and shifted his weight between his feet. “Should I, uh – should I bring anything?”

“Just your dazzling personality, Sims,” said Tim. “And, maybe, also booze. Definitely booze, actually.”

Tim concluded their chat with a clap against his shoulder, and then a small wave. Jon turned to watch him as he left. How did that man manage to carry so much confidence? He seemed just to ooze laid-back energy, and it was almost infuriating – if only because Jon was slightly jealous. He seemed so easy to like, and there was a part of Jon that wanted to fight against that natural urge to lean into conversation with him. Maybe it was his gentle shameless character, he didn’t seem easy to phase or embarrass, and would probably laugh off any insulting insinuations and turn it back on the other person with comedic ease. And he was tall, if Jon needed another reason to be jealous.

Sasha opened the door for him when he knocked.

She smiled warmly at him. “Jon! You made it!”

“I brought wine,” he said, and he held up his Tesco branded bag.

She opened the door wider, and beckoned him inside. “Come in, Tim and Martin are just in the living room at the end of the hall.”

He gave her a nod, as he slid past her and into the warmly lit hallway. Tim lived on the second-floor level of an old tenement building. The hallway was narrow, and lined with framed posters of old movies and obscure bands. A brightly patterned runner rug ran across the floor, obscuring the linoleum wood flooring. Jon followed it, as instructed, with Sasha behind him as he made his way over to the ajar door. He could hear music from behind it, and the sound of conversation. He took a deep breath and pushed it open. Conversation halted when Jon entered. He gave a small wave, and shifted awkwardly on the balls of his feet.

“Jon,” said Tim, “good to see you, buddy.”

“Thank you for having me,” said Jon with a nod. Martin didn’t say anything, but he shot Jon a wave and a smile. Tim smacked the space on the couch beside him.

“Come,” said Tim, “sit.”

Jon stumbled his way over to where Tim was sitting, and fell awkwardly beside him. He placed the carrier bag down by his feet, where it settled with a gentle crinkle and a thud. He took a moment to take in his surroundings. The ceiling still bore the traditional crown moulding – which, some people seemed to think signified that the place was expensive, but it only signified that the place was most likely falling apart due to age. He had two matching couches, both in a mustard tone, that sat parallel to each other, with a round hardwood coffee table sitting between them. The table was covered in a few loose magazines, a stack of beaten up looking boardgames, and multiple glasses of wine.

A dining table was set up against the window. A bromeliad plant sat atop of the red tablecloth, and a laptop was left open, facing away from the room. A bookcase lined the wall across from Jon, and he took a moment to mentally scour it. There were quite a few travel manuals, as well as a number of history books – a lot seemed to focus on the LGBT movement between the 60’s and 80’s. Jon noticed a few familiar spines, and was pleasantly surprised with how extensive his library was. He hadn’t really taken Tim for a reading sort of person.

Sasha had taken the seat beside Martin, and Jon watched as she nudged his shoulder teasingly and laughed, almost too quiet for him to hear. Martin seemed quite keen to ignore her, as he stared at his knees.

Sasha and Tim got to chatting easily, as they bickered and bantered over which boardgame to set up. Tim seemed to be valiantly fighting for Snakes and Ladders, despite, from what Sasha was saying, the fact that they didn’t even own that game. Martin smiled as he watched them chat, and Jon felt unable to pull his eyes away from him, as he watched him rest comfortably against the pillows, propping his head up with his hand. After a moment, his gaze flickered towards Jon, and his smile halted for a split second before growing slightly wider. Jon didn’t have the reaction time to pretend he hadn’t been staring, so he just smiled back.

“Trivial Pursuit then,” said Tim, suddenly louder than before. He was holding the lid of the box in his hand, which he quickly threw to the side, and begun to tip out the contents onto the table. Colourful plastic pieces and dice scattered quickly across the room, and Jon heard Sasha give a heavy sigh. Tim scuttled across the room, on all fours, as he made work of retrieving them. As he did, Martin unfolded the actual board, and moved some of the clutter on top of the table onto the floor. As he placed the board down, Tim triumphantly slammed the pieces in his hand down on it. Martin flinched reactively at the sound.

“I call Sasha,” said Tim, pointing over to where she sat.

She raised an eyebrow. “You better let me answer the History questions – last time we played you said that Edward the 1st was known as Big Dick Ed.”

“Wasn’t he?”

“Not in our curriculum he isn’t,” she said, with a fond but sarcastic eyeroll.

“Ah – cowards, they aren’t ready for Big Dick Ed,” said Tim, with a shake of his head. Tim and Martin seemed to be now sitting on the floor, around the table. Jon lowered himself down, and scooted towards where Martin sat, as Martin inched closer to where he was moving to, and their knees knocked together unceremoniously. There was a ‘oops’ and an apology, but they both remained where they were. Neither seemed to mind.

“Guess we’re together?” said Martin.

“I suppose we are,” said Jon. “Team, uh – team Jartin?” He pulled a face, and Martin laughed.

“Team Mon?” offered Martin.

“Mon the Hib’s!” cried Tim suddenly, in a horrendously bad Scottish accent. Sasha slapped his arm, and shushed him. He shot her an aghast look.

“We’re going to win,” said Martin to Jon. Sasha looked up, and snorted.

“That’s a bold statement coming from the man who pulled out his calculator to split a £12 bill between the three of us.”

“I was just double checking!” cried Martin, cheeks reddening. “It had been a long day.”

Jon laughed, and Martin shot him a traitorous glare. “We’re on the same team!”

Jon’s grin broke wider, and he bounced softly against Martin as he pulled his laughter in. Martin shook his head, and then placed his chin in his hands, covering up the small smile that managed to peak through.

“We ready to play?” asked Tim, as he ratted the dice nosily in his cupped palm. Sasha gave an affirmative cheer, and Tim let the dice roll free.

“In George Orwell’s Animal Farm, what was the name of the pig leader?” read Tim, in his best television presenter voice. Sasha, who had her elbow propped against Tim’s shoulder, looked out at the two of them with a raised and teasing eyebrow. Jon furrowed his brow – he knew the answer, it was just hidden somewhere in his brain, stacked underneath all the pointless pieces of information he had cultivated, like how taxes worked and which washing machine setting shrank his favourite jumper.

“Napoleon?” tried Jon, a voice a few pitches higher than usual in uncertainty. Tim raised his eyebrow quizzically. Jon squinted at him.

“Is that your final answer?” he said, as Sasha began to replicate the Countdown theme song, bobbing her head up and down with the notes.

Jon looked to Martin, who pulled an indifferent face and shrugged. “Yes … yes. That’s our answer.”

Tim looked between them with a stony and unreadable expression, as Sasha sang the final few notes of the theme song. “You are – correct!”

“That was entirely a team effort,” said Martin, as he leant forward to slot the purple triangle piece for Arts & Literature into its slot on their wheel.

Jon scoffed. “Oh, yeah – great job us.”

“Our turn!” said Sasha, as she excitedly picked up the discarded dice and rolled. “Ew – three.”

Tim moved their marker the designated number of spaces. “One science question please, kind sirs.”

Jon rolled his eyes, as he reached over to pull out a card. He sighed as soon as he read it. “If you don’t get this, then legally you have to resign from education.”

Tim turned over the timer and wiggled his eyebrows playfully at Jon. “Hit us, Sims.”

He sighed again. “What gas do we breathe?”

Sasha and Tim made a meal out of replying, as they turned to look at each other with comedically baffled expressions. Tim furiously scratched his head, as Sasha steepled her fingers against her chin in a sign of deep concentration. Every now and then, one of them would open their mouth to reply, only to quickly shake their heads, and resign back into thought.

“Guys,” said Martin, holding down the ‘s’ sound for effect. Tim and Sasha looked at each other with one final solemn nod.

“Okay,” said Sasha. “We’re going to go with Oxygen, Jon.”

Jon raised his eyebrow. “You’re sure?” he asked sarcastically.

“The pressure is too much,” cried Tim as he dropped his face into his hands. “Put us out of our misery – please!”

Martin gave an indigent snort, as he chucked a green triangle their way. Sasha scooped it up with a grin, as she slotted it in. “Only one more to go – looks like we’re winning.”

Martin shot Jon a desperate look, and shook his head weakly. “Jon, I can’t lose to Tim.”

“Well,” said Jon, “we wouldn’t be behind if you hadn’t said that Leonardo Davinci wrote the Davinci Code.”

“I heard Davinci and I panicked!” explained Martin. “He was a well-practiced man – literature doesn’t seem that out of his wheelhouse.”

“It came out in 2003, Martin,” sighed Jon, with a harmless eyeroll. “Roll the dice.”

Martin scooped up the dice, and rolled. “History, please!”

Tim leant forward and whipped out one of the cards from the box with a flourish, and wiggled his eyebrows at the two of them.

“Which insect is famous for inspiring Robert the Bruce to defeat the English?” said Tim. Martin clapped his hands together excitedly and shot forward.

“Spider!” he exclaimed loudly, and then, quieter, “it was a spider. Spiders aren’t actually insects – they’re arachnids! Did you guys know that spiders actually have more in common with scorpions than insects? There’s also a spider called the Goliath spider, and it can grow up to 11 inches long! Yeah, it’s – sorry! Rambling …” He gave a small laugh, as he rubbed his hands against his thighs. Jon gave a compulsory shiver at the mention.

“You are correct,” said Tim, pointing at him with the card in his hand. “But no bonus points for the factoid session.”

“Imagine needing a spider to inspire you to defeat the English,” said Sasha with a sigh. “I just need to wake up and I want to defeat the English.”

“You are English, Sasha,” said Martin with a puzzled brow.

She pulled a face. “Don’t remind me.”

The rest of the game passed by in a blur of large glasses of wine, accusations of cheating, and lighting rounds. When Tim and Sasha were crowned the champions, Jon was too buzzed to care. Tim and Sasha were leaning against the couch, with Tim’s arm draped casually over her shoulders. Tim whispered something in her ear, and she gave a snort. Jon swirled the remaining liquid in his glass around, and watched the small red tornado form in the centre. As a child, he had never understood why the aristocratic characters he saw on TV would swirl their wine before drinking it – to be honest, he still wasn’t fully sure of the reason, but he very much doubted that they did it because they thought it looked cool. It was quite hypnotic, he found, and it wasn’t until he heard Sasha’s voice, that he looked up.

“Martin,” she said. “Can you chum me to the kitchen? I need a hand bringing thing’s through.”

“Oh – yeah, sure,” he said, as he scrambled up to his feet to follow her out of the room. Which just left Tim and Jon, alone. In all their conversations, Tim had always been the one to initiate and tended to spearhead them. Jon wasn’t really sure how to strike up conversation with the other man, and it seemed safer just to wait for him to speak. Which didn’t take long, as it seemed Tim was a rather chatty man.

“So, Jon,” he said, with a curious and almost teasing tone. Jon took a small sip from his glass, readying himself for whatever question matched Tim’s hungry gaze.

“Yes,” he said, a note of hesitancy in his tone.

“Can I ask what your deal is?” He placed his arms on the couch behind him, stretching out his chest in an almost intimating motion.

“My deal?” repeated Jon. He gave the room another look over, feeling almost as if there were cameras watching him. There was always a small nagging feeling that came with talking to Tim that was that he was being set up as the punchline to a joke.

“You know – your deal?” he said again. “Are you single? Do you like guys?”

Jon furrowed his brow. “I thought you and Sasha were together?”

Tim looked puzzled for a moment, before realisation dawned and he laughed. “Oh – no, Jon. I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re hot – in a tired librarian sort of way. I’m just been nosy – pure curiosity.”

Jon didn’t have time to reply as the door opened again, and Sasha and Martin entered. Sasha was holding a new bottle of wine, alongside a share bag of ready salted Walkers. She threw them to the table, where they knocked aside the forgotten boardgame pieces. Martin came back to his seat beside Jon, and fell down with a small grunt.

“Jon,” said Tim, with a small devilish smile as Sasha uncorked the bottle. A weak pop sounded, and she worked around the room, topping up empty glasses.

“Uh, yes,” he said, “to both, I suppose.”

Tim’s smile grew, and he looked quite pleased with his answer as he nodded. “Nice.”

“What?” said Martin. Jon ignored him.

Tim gave a shrug. “Was just finishing off a conversation with ol’ Jonny here. Do people call you Jonny?”

Jon thought for a moment. “Not since my university days, no. That was more of a stage name, though.”

Jon had to admit he quite enjoyed the looks he was getting from Tim and Sasha, both wide eyed and very intrigued. He looked over to Martin, who was also very much enjoying the other two’s reaction.

“He was in a band,” said Martin, jerking his thumb in Jon’s direction. “He wore eyeliner.”

Jon rolled his eyes at that, but snorted, nonetheless.

“Well, damn,” said Tim, laughing. “Now I know why you like him so much, Martin. Jon - you were in a band?”

There was a strangled sound from Martin’s direction, and Sasha slapped Tim on the arm playfully.

“Yeah,” said Jon. “It was just a silly thing – it was fun, though. Almost miss it.”

“Almost?” said Sasha. 

“I hardly think I have the energy these days to prance about on stage,” he said with a laugh that was meant to sound mirthful, but came out more mournful. He gave a shrug. “I like teaching.”

“Still,” said Sasha, “that’s quite an exciting thing. Who knew you were cool?”

Jon tried to glare at her, but it was heatless underneath the laughter of the rest of the room. Martin knocked his shoulder against his.

“You’re still cool,” he said, just quiet enough that only Jon could hear it. There was a bemused twinkle in his eyes as he spoke.

Jon gave a snort. “What happened to bullying my argyle jumpers?”

“Oh – no, I stand by that. They’re not cool.”

“But?”

“But,” said Martin slowly, “I think you are.”

Jon gave an airy laugh. “Thank you, Martin. You’re not so uncool yourself.”

“Oh – no, I’m the coolest,” said Martin with a stern expression. “Mark Breekon, in year 10, said so.”

Jon feigned a gasp. “ _The_ Mark Breekon in year 10? Well, I suppose if he said it …”

Martin nodded. “The very same one. The man behind the famous toilet seat thefts of 2018.”

“Oh - _what_ an honour.”

Once the wine was gone, the group became aware of the late hour, and both Jon and Martin decreed that they were not keen to miss the last tube home. Sasha, who had kicked off her shoes and was lounging on the couch comfortably, seemed like she was staying. Tim gave them both a hearty hug as they left, followed by a cry of farewells from a couch-ridden Sasha. As the door shut behind Jon and Martin, they were both smiling. The outside air was soft, and the streetlights casted a grainy and warm filter over the street. There were a few faces on the street, those coming home late, and those whose Fridays were just about to start.

“Do you want to walk?” said Martin.

“We are walking,” said Jon.

“Instead of getting the tube,” he said, with a joking huff. “It’s a nice night.”

Jon thought for a moment; he only lived three stops away – it wouldn’t take longer than twenty minutes to walk it, and Martin was right, it was a nice evening. Besides, if the underground could be avoided, then far be it from Jon to argue otherwise. If he had been alone, if wouldn’t favour walking. But he wasn’t, he had Martin.

“Okay, a – a walk sounds nice.”

Martin replied with a wonky smile, and Jon felt his breath momentarily hitch. There really was something so intoxicating about Martin’s smile, the gentle lop-sidedness of it, matched with the crinkle of his eyes that just made Jon feel accomplished to have lured it out.

The two walked in parallel beside each other, in their own quiet little bubble against the noise of the street. It wasn’t long until they passed by the tube station that Jon knew was near where Martin stayed. Jon looked over at Martin, to see if he noticed, but the other man’s gaze seemed fixated on the road ahead. Jon’s brows knotted for a moment.

“We’re almost at yours, aren’t we?”

“Oh,” said Martin stiffly. “Yeah, we are.”

He didn’t stop walking, though, and Jon, who had slowed for a goodbye, quickly picked up his pace to catch up with him.

“Thought I would walk you home,” said Martin, when Jon returned by his side.

Jon gave an airy laugh. “Oh, that’s very kind, Martin – but there’s really no need.”

Martin just gave a small shrug. Jon decided to concede against it, and they continued in stride. They passed by a group of young women, dressed in clothing that was entirely inappropriate for the cold weather. Jon wondered if that’s why groups of girls always huddled so close together – they had to retain warmth in any way they could. They laughed and chatted loudly as they passed them by, seeming to be in a bubble of their own – a Sourz and Superdrug’s own body spray scented bubble. Jon took a step closer to Martin, as they passed by; the pavement was only so wide. Martin placed a hand on Jon’s back as they passed, some kind of gentle tether, and Jon melted slightly into the touch. Once the group passed, the hand fell, and Jon noted that he missed it. 

Ten minutes later saw them at the end of Jon’s street. At first, Jon thought it was his imagination that had Martin walking so slowly – but after stopping for the second time to make sure he was still there, it became apparent that Martin’s pace had turned to one of a snail.

“Martin?” called Jon.

“Do you want to get a drink?” asked Martin, who had completely halted now. “Or – or something?”

Jon shook his head, slowly, and knotted his brows in curiosity. “It’s quite late, Martin.”

Martin rolled his lips between his teeth, kissing them slightly. There was an expression on his face that, on anyone else, Jon would have read as annoyance. But, against Martin’s features, look more akin to desperation.

“Martin, are you okay?” asked Jon. Martin shuffled awkwardly between his feet. “Martin?”

He gave a sigh. “I’m just, ah – I’m just trying killing time.”

Jon hesitated for a moment. “Why?”

Martin seemed quite determined to look anywhere but where Jon was, which is why Jon swayed between left and right trying to catch his attention, as he moved forward to meet him. “Martin.”

“I – fuck, I don’t really want to go home,” he admitted, raising and dropping his shoulders quickly.

“Because of the –“

“Yes, Jon – because of the bloody burglary,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut as he said it. “I know – I know, I need to get over it. We’re, ah – we’re well past pathetic now.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh as he said it.

“You aren’t pathetic, Martin,” said Jon softly. “Do you – would you want to stay over at mine again?”

Martin made a pained noise. “I can’t just run away from it, Jon. I have to – _ack_ , I have to deal with it.” He paused for a moment. “Thank you though, Jon – but no thanks.”

Jon nodded. “No I – I get it, Martin. I do.”

Martin pulled a half-smile. “It is late, though – I should probably …” he trailed off, gesturing to the street behind him.

Jon bit down on the inside of his cheek. He hated seeing Martin look so uncertain, and so scared. He had to be able to offer something better than a pull-out couch. He blinked, and felt a metaphorical lightbulb turn on above his head.

“A dog!” he said suddenly. Martin’s shoulders shot up in surprise at his outburst, and then settled into the curious lilt of his face. His head rocked side to side as he looked around the street.

“Where?”

Jon made a sound of annoyance. “There’s not a dog here – I’m saying you should get a dog, or a cat. Or fish, or something. Lizard?”

“Oh,” said Martin, in a tone that implied complete loss. “Why?”

Jon gave a weak shrug. “Your flat might be less scary if you have someone else there – well, not someone. Something – some creature.” He shook his head. “Georgie got the Admiral when she lived alone, she said it made being alone in the flat less scary. Thought maybe …”

Martin’s face softened, and he bit down a smile. “That’s – that’s not a bad idea, actually. A dog, hm”

Jon felt a small glow of satisfaction bloom in his chest, and he smiled back. “I could – uh, I could come with you?” offered Jon. “To the shelter – if you wanted? Or wherever has animals.”

“You would do that?” said Martin. “You really wouldn’t have to, Jon. This isn’t your problem, or anything.”

“No, but you are.” He paused. “That came out wrong. You’re my friend, is what I meant.”

Martin laughed, and Jon saw the remaining tension in his face fall away. “I’m your problem?”

“That’s one word for it,” said Jon with a fond eyeroll. Martin gave a snort. “How about tomorrow?”

In a moment that was too short to be counted, Martin had stepped forward, and brought his arms around Jon’s torso and pulled him in tight. Jon froze for a moment, but quickly thawed in the warmth of the embrace. It felt so easy to just sink into Martin’s body, and he brought his arms up around the other man’s waist, feeling the rise and fall of his breath against his hands.

“Tomorrow,” he repeated, the words muffled slightly against his skin. “Thank you, Jon.”

Martin pulled back, and Jon felt the icy wind of the evening sap away the residual warmth of the embrace. He coughed, clearing away a lump that had suddenly formed in his throat.

“Of course, Martin,” he said, with a stiff nod. A beat passed. “Well, it’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” nodded Martin. “Sleep well, Jon.”

“You’ll be okay?”

Martin gave him a reassuring smile. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Go – it’s freezing out here.”

Jon gave a half laugh, half snort. “Get home safe, Martin.”

Martin smirked, and nodded again, before slowly turning on his heels and headed off into the night. Jon loitered for a moment, as he watched Martin’s figure slowly shrink before him, and vanish beyond his view.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured to himself. The words brought warmth to his chest. “Tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you or a loved one have had to listen to a hoard of drunk Glaswegians chants 'MON THE HIBEES!' outside your local spoons then you qualify for a discount at every local tartan tat shop xox
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!  
> The next chapter might be up a little bit later than usual because I realised I hatedddd where I had taken it, and had to delete the next two chapters D:  
> I'm at Buccata if you want to follow or message me on tumblr!  
> Kudos and comments are veryyyyyyy appreciated !!  
> have a wonderful week xx


	8. Pets at Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s – he is my friend, Georgie,” stated Jon, in overtly clear dictation. “That’s all that is going on there!”  
> “I’m just winding you up, Jon,” she said. “That’s my job. That and making you look incredibly gorgeous for your not-date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Hope you have all had a wonderful week xx
> 
> Just to preface this chapter - I have absolutely no clue how dog adoption works, I have lived 20 sad dogless years.  
> This is my teacher au/dog adoption is very simple AU
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“You look very nice,” hummed Georgie, as she manifested against his doorframe.

He glared at her, as he threaded his belt through the final loop of his jeans. He hadn’t really been sure of what the dress code was for animal shelters, but wearing his usual get up seemed overkill – so he had elected for one of his less worn-down T-shirts. It had been pushed to the back of his wardrobe, hidden behind row after row of plain button ups. He had loosely tucked it into his one and only pair of denim jeans, which were definitely a lot looser on him than the last time he had worn them. When that was, he couldn’t say he recalled.

“Where you going?” she asked, when she realised her first comment was not going to get a reply.

“The animal shelter,” he supplied. “The one next to that Matalan outlet store.”

“Oh,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Didn’t realise we were expanding.”

“It’s not for me,” he said, as he began to fiddle with his hair. Up or down, up or down – half up, half down? He sighed. Georgie placed the cup of tea that was in her hands down on his dresser and gestured for him to sit down on the bed. He complied.

“I’m going to take a stab in the dark and guess. Martin?” she said, as she began to card her hands through Jon’s hair. She prised apart the knots that had accumulated during his restless sleep. Jon winced slightly as she tugged a particularly messy knot apart. She snorted, and smacked his head gently. 

“I thought a dog might – I don’t know, make his flat less scary.”

Georgie’s hand appeared by his face, and he handed her the bobble that was on his wrist. She snatched it up, and Jon felt his hair being scraped back and away from his face.

“You hate dogs, though,” she pointed out, and Jon could see her pulling a puzzled expression in the mirror before him. “That’s why you and the Admiral get on so well.”

“I don’t _hate_ dogs,” he clarified. “I just – they just freak me out a bit.”

“Martin must be very special then,” said Georgie, and she winked at his reflection. As if on cue, Jon’s face went pink, and he glared at her mirrored form. She just laughed.

“He’s – he is my friend, Georgie,” stated Jon, in overtly clear dictation. “That’s all that is going on there!”

“I’m just winding you up, Jon,” she said. “That’s my job. That and making you look incredibly gorgeous for your not-date.”

Jon offered her a final glare, before he turned his attention down towards his own reflection. He moved his head side to side, taking in Georgie’s work. She had pulled all his hair back in a simple French braid, leaving a few tendrils to float around his face. He looked instantly younger with the grey pulled away from him. Georgie hadn’t done a terrible job – he would admit that. She clapped him on the shoulders, before pushing herself up off his bed.

“You’re welcome,” she said, picking her cup up and taking a long sip. She wiggled her eyebrows at him over the mug.

“Thank you, Georgie,” he said.

She gave a mock bow, and took her leave. Jon took a second more with his reflection. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to put an effort into his appearance – they were going to a smelly building, full of yapping animals. Fashion sense was hardly a requirement to go in. But he had to admit, it felt quite nice to put an effort into his appearance.

It wasn’t the end of the world if Jon cared about himself.

Martin was waiting outside the tube station when he emerged. He noticed him almost immediately, and waved enthusiastically. Jon smiled in response as he made his way over.

“Good morning, Martin,” he said.

“Hi, Jon,” said Martin. Jon noticed that Martin’s gaze was flickering over his outfit, a tinge of pink graced his cheeks. Jon crossed his arms self-consciously. “You look really nice.”

Jon dropped his arms. “Oh, thank you.” He swallowed. “So - so do you, Martin.”

The colour of his cheeps deepened, and he coughed to clear his throat. “Ah – thanks. Thank you, Jon.”

“Shall we?”

There wasn’t a tube that took them directly to the shelter, but there was a station near enough – and a fifteen-minute walk wouldn’t kill them. The midday sun was warming the streets of London, and Jon took a moment as they walked to briefly close his eyes and feel the gentle heat against his skin. It wasn’t long before the sign for the shelter came into view – which was written in an ugly neon green bubble font. The electric doors slid open, and the two stepped into the malodour of wet dog against sterile stink.

“What do I say?” whispered Martin. “Hello, may I have one dog, please?”

“Might as well cut to the chase.”

The main waiting area didn’t look too dissimilar to a hospital waiting room. It was very clean, and very white. The only specks of colour came from the plastic chairs pressed against the wall, and the posters on the wall – advertising dog treats, and advising families to ‘adopt today!’. A man, dressed in blue scrubs, was standing behind the desk that sat in the back corner of the room. He was chatting to an elderly woman, who was sat in one of the chairs.

“Is this a bad idea?” asked Martin, as he scrunched up his nose. “Is this very impromptu? Like, bad impromptu?”

“Do you want to leave?” Jon gestured back towards the door. Martin hesitated for a moment, eyes flickering between the desk and the door.

“No.” He shook his head, and then took a breath. Jon gave his arm a quick squeeze, and Martin turned to him, and then smiled. “Thanks for coming, Jon.”

They made their way over to the desk, and the receptionist faded away from his conversation as he saw them approach.

“Hello,” he said. “How can I help you both today?”

“Hello!” said Martin, his voice a tad higher and more strained than usual. “I was just wondering what the process was for adopting a dog, or - or something.”

“Well, we are out of ‘something’, but if you fill out this form.” He pulled a clipboard out from behind the desk, and placed it in front of Martin. “Then we can get started on finding you your _fur-ever_ friend.”

“Fur-ever,” repeated Jon under his breath with a quiet laugh. Martin elbowed him with one arm, and took the clipboard with the other.

“Thank you,” he said to the man. They walked over to a set of empty chairs. Martin began flicking through the pages, his eyes skimming the form and his brow furrowing. “Jesus, it’s like a game of twenty questions. Am I married? Is that important?”

“Well, do you want a bastard dog?”

“Huh?”

“It’s – it’s nothing, never mind.” Jon shook his head, and Martin gave him a curious expression.

He began to scribble down his details, quickly ploughing through the fluff questions. The receptionist and the old lady had resumed their conversation and judging by the woman’s animated movements, it was a very interesting story. The vacant nods of the man suggested otherwise, however. He turned his attention back to Martin.

“What does the K stand for?” asked Jon, pointing to the top of the clipboard where he had printed his name out in all caps. Martin K Blackwood, it read.

“Oh,” said Martin, his face turning an almost violent shade of red. “It’s nothing.”

“Is that nothing spelt with a K?” said Jon, the hint of a teasing smile forming at the edges of his mouth. “What is that? Gaelic?”

Martin made a garbled noise, and continued to ferociously fill out the rest of the form, intent on avoiding eye contact with Jon.

“Alright, Martin Knothing Blackwood,” said Jon airily. “You win.”

“Right,” muttered Martin. Jon snorted. “What’s a general description of my personality?”

“Is that a question on the form?”

“Yeah,” said Martin. “It’s to see what kind of rescue I would get along with.”

“Oh,” said Jon. “Let me see. You are very …”

He faltered off. How would he describe Martin? He looked over to the man in question. The word beautiful came to mind, in both body and soul. Followed by charming, and then wonderful. He couldn’t say that to Martin. Not to his face, anyway.

“Going to be honest, Jon, the pause does not make me feel great.”

“I’m thinking,” he said. A beat passed. “You are very kind, and caring – and clumsy.”

“Jon!”

He laughed. “Is it better if I say it’s endearing?”

Martin blinked. “It – hm, fine. I can’t write that down, though.”

“Fine,” said Jon. “Write down that you are an incredibly compassionate human being, with god-like patience, who also makes very good tea.”

“You like my tea?”

Jon furrowed his brow. “Yes, of course I do,” he said plainly, like it was the most obvious thing to be stated.

Martin’s lips curled up into a smile, and Jon felt himself mirror the motion. “That’s – that’s cool. Cool.”

Martin went back to filling out the form, the smile still present on his lips. The door slid open, and a small family walked in. A woman and her husband walked between their young daughter, who couldn’t be older than five. She clung to both of their hands, and tugged on them excitedly. She was wearing a tutu and fairy wings, and had the biggest grin on her face. It was quite adorable, really. The father went up to the receptionist, and they exchanged the same pleasantries as Martin had. A clipboard was handed over, and the family sat down across from where Jon and Martin sat.

The girl peered at them curiously, as she swung her legs off of the chair. Jon gave her an awkward smile. He was never really sure how to interact with children, especially ones that seemed to just want to look at you without thought. He felt incredibly pinned down by her stare, as she blinked at him with her too-wide eyes. He looked down at his hands, and fiddled with a hangnail. He could hear the parents discussing the form, going over whose name to put where, etcetera.

Beside him, Martin knocked the pen against his chin, lost in thought. Jon gave him a small nudge. He jostled to attention, dropping the pen to the page, and craning his neck to face him. “Sorry,” said Martin. “Million miles away. I think I’m done, though?”

He drummed his pen atop the now completed pages, and then brought himself to his feet. Jon put his hands against his thighs and followed suit. The receptionist, whose nametag Jon had just noticed read that his name was Darryl, smiled at them as they returned.

“All done?” he asked, accepting the offered papers from Martin’s hand. “If you want to just give me a second to check through this, and then we’ll be able to let you through to have a look at all of our furry friends.”

“Thank you,” said Martin with a wide, yet forced smile. Darryl ducked his head down to read through the file. Martin let out a small breath, and leant his back against the desk. A line of worry quivered above his brow.

“You okay?” asked Jon. Martin blinked, and his face eased slightly.

“Yeah – yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “Nervous, I guess.”

“How so?”

Martin pursed his lips together, and squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s really stupid – but, uh, what if the dogs don’t like me? What if I have a weird anti-dog vibe?”

“The Admiral likes you,” pointed out Jon. “He’s not a dog, albeit – but he is a, uh, a _furry friend._ ”

“Jon,” warned Martin, his eyes flickering towards Darryl.

“The dogs are not going to hate you,” said Jon, placing a hand on Martin’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. Martin took a deep breath, and then shot him a grateful smile. Jon felt his throat tighten.

“Alright,” said Darryl, “everything seems to be in order. If you would like to follow me.”

The sound was almost painful as they stepped through the door. The echoing chamber, full of dogs yapping and barking for attention, reverberated at a concerningly high decibel. Jon’s initial instinct upon entry was to block his ears. The room was a wide corridor, with large cell-style rooms lining the walls, all filled with curious snots and wagging tails. Jon felt the familiar anxiety that he often felt around dogs claw around his heart, and he stepped closer to Martin, as if he would somehow be a barrier against the fear. Or at least maybe a physical barrier in case all of the canines managed to break out and attempt to attack him, and tear him limb from limb – no, that was not going to happen. He took another step closer, nonetheless.

Martin seemed to be taken with every dog they passed, taking a moment with each of them to crouch down beside their cages and say hello and tell them all how wonderful they were. It was surprisingly endearing, and Jon found himself biting down a fond smile the entire time. Jon peered through all the cages, being met with the smiling maws of the dogs, who all looked up at him with big wide – well, puppy dog eyes. Some of them did make his heart soften, but only from a safe distance.

“Oh, Jon,” cried Martin, waving him over, “look at her.”

Jon crept round behind Martin, making sure to keep a distance between himself and the dog in question. The laminated sheet of paper tied to the door of her cage said that her name was Lucy, and that she had just turned six. She was a brown cattle dog, with specks of white and lighter brown fur smattered across her coat. Her tail wagged enthusiastically at the sight of them, and her tongue hung excitedly out of her mouth, as her head bobbed between them. Martin had turned into a human thesaurus for the word wonderful, and was prattling off an endless list of compliments for the canine. The endearments certainly made Lucy seem less daunting, and Jon slowly inched forward, until he was beside Martin. He lowered himself down. Martin gave him a warm smile. Lucy stuck her nose through the bars towards Jon, and he startled, and stumbled backwards onto his backside. He had already been crouching, so it was hardly a tumble, but Martin jumped to attention, and pulled him up.

“You alright?” he asked, looking both amused and concerned. Jon wiped an imaginary fleck of dust away from his trousers, and nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “just – I was taken by surprise, is all.”

The corners of Martin’s lips quivered up. He looked between Jon and Lucy. “Jon …” he started slowly. “Are you afraid of dogs?”

Jon made an indigent sound, and crossed his arms defensively.

“Jon…”

He sighed. “I’m not _scared_ of dogs. I just – I just feel very tense and uncomfortable around dogs, in fear that they might attack and or maul me.”

“So,” continued Martin, “fear?”

“Fine!” he snapped. “Yes - fear, Martin. I’m scared of dogs! Happy?”

Martin’s face cracked into a wide smile. “And you came with me? To the dog shelter?”

Jon blinked, his tight grip around his torso slipping. “Well… yes.”

Somehow, his smile grew wider. “That’s really sweet, Jon.”

Jon felt incredibly flustered, and he felt his cheeks turn a burning shade of red. Martin laughed, and gestured with his head back to the cage that housed Lucy. He crouched down again. Cautiously, Jon returned to his position before.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” said Jon, a lot quicker than he expected himself to say.

“Give me your hand.”

Martin held his own hand out expectantly. Jon faltered for a moment, momentarily unsure, but then slowly pulled his hand up to meet Martin’s. Martin softly cupped the palm of his hand, and lifted it over to where Lucy’s head poked through the cage bars. The pads of Martin’s fingers were so soft and warm, that for a moment Jon completely forgot what was happening, so transfixed on the sensation of touch. It wasn’t until the texture of soft hair met his skin that he was brought back to the moment.

“You okay?” asked Martin quietly. Jon let out a long breath, and nodded. He let his hand fall onto the head of Lucy, and he very gingerly moved his fingers against her scalp, stroking her fur down with the grain. Martin pulled his own hand away, and Jon had to fight down the urge to ask him to stay. Lucy moved graciously into the touch, and wagged her tail in appreciation. Her maw smiled at Jon, and he let out a tiny apprehensive laugh. He moved his hand down to behind her ear, and she responded enthusiastically, pressing her muzzle against his hand. Jon almost jumped back at the sudden sensation of wetness against his skin, but he stayed put, and continued to massage circles against her coat.

“I think she likes you,” said Martin, knocking his arm against Jon’s.

“Yes, I think I quite like her.”

“Do you think she’s my fur-ever friend?”

Jon laughed. “I think she may very well be.”

“Cool,” said Martin, with a wide smile.

* * *

A convoluted series of forms and discussions later had the three of them standing outside of Martin’s flat. Martin hesitated outside his door. He held his keys in his hand, poised next to the lock, but made no indication of completing the process. Lucy looked up at him expectantly, her tail flapping against the concrete steps. Jon cleared his throat, a tad impatiently, and shivered against the chill that had formed in the air.

Martin bit his lip. “Just – just don’t judge me too hard, okay?”

“What? Martin, I’m not – I wouldn’t,” he said sincerely. He understood Martin’s anxiety; he had felt the same way when Martin had crashed on his couch.

“It’s just – it’s a little bit,” he sighed. “It’s just kind of crummy.”

With a sense of finality, he slotted the key home, and pushed open the door. Lucy enthusiastically shot past them into the flat. Martin held the door open for Jon, and lifelessly gestured for him to follow. Walking into Martin’s flat felt like someone had turned down the saturation; limp, dusty grey curtains hung over pinprick windows, obscuring the meagre rays of light they allowed in; a cheap looking linoleum dining table was pushed into the corner of the room, with a single dining chair pushed against it. The table was covered in paperwork, and a closed laptop – it looked like it saw more work than it did meals. A few stained coffee mugs sat atop of the table, pinning down files and letters. The couch looked like it had been salvaged from the Salvation army’s unwanted pile; it was a horrible sluggish green colour, with a mucus yellow floral pattern adorning it. It sat facing a thick looking old television set, which had a pile of DVDs sat atop it. The rest of the home was hidden behind shut doors.

It looked nothing like how Jon had envisioned Martin’s home in his head. He had pictured shelves of books – old fashioned books, with curled brown edges and that glorious smell of ancient history. He had imagined walls lined with colourful pieces of artwork; pieces that he had maybe found at car boot sales and flea markets, some really obscure and interesting pieces. He had expected to see vibrant plant life, kept in colourful pots and hanging from the ceiling in macramé hangers. This place before him was the antithesis of Martin – it was dreary, and dark and depressing. Martin was vibrant, and cheerful and colours. Jon tried not to let the wrongness of the place show on his face.

“A lot of the furniture belonged to my mum,” he began to explain. “I couldn’t really afford to replace any of it.” He gave a sad laugh. “It’s a shithole, I know.”

“No, it’s not. It’s…” he wavered off.

“You don’t need to pretend,” he said. “I have eyes.”

“Right,” said Jon. “Sorry.”

Lucy bounced curiously through the room, taking in all the new sights and exploring what would be her new home. Martin gave her a scratch behind the ears, as he made his way over to the window to pull back the curtain. The room brightened up slightly, but it still looked as if someone had placed a blue filter over the place.

“We should get Lucy set up,” said Martin.

Jon placed the bags in his hand down, and began to unpack some of the things they had gotten. They had made a very quick pit stop to a nearby Pets at Home store, to grab the essentials – a bed, a bowl, food, and a very random assortment of toys. The assistant in the store had been very keen to sell them a number of incredibly obscure and expensive items that were deemed necessities – but neither of them could fathom how a water bowl that was designed to look like a fountain was an essential item. Despite neglecting the more luxurious items, the bill had been quite substantial and had had Martin looking slightly nauseous. Jon had offered to chip in, but had been very quickly shut down.

Lucy came over to where Jon was unpacking, and nuzzled at some of the items they had purchased. His reflexes kicked in, and his whole body tensed up, before Lucy looked up at him and grinned in that odd way that dogs did. He gave her a short pat on the head, but then quickly shuffled away from her.

“Would you like a cup of tea or anything?” asked Martin, popping his head out of the kitchen door.

“Oh, that would be lovely,” answered Jon. “Thank you.”

He heard the sounds of water running, and then the click of a kettle. Jon decided to fill up Lucy’s bowl while he waited. He gagged slightly at the smell – it had been almost a decade since he had last eaten, or really been around meat. He gingerly picked up the plastic scoop that sat atop the bag, and served up a feast for the new canine.

“Tea,” announced Martin, holding up two mugs. Jon clipped the bag of dog food, shut, and graciously took the offered cup.

“You roller-skated?” he asked, curiously, reading the swirly font on his mug that read: 2006 ROLLERDERBY CHAMPION.

“No, god no – can you imagine?” said Martin with a snort. He took a sip from his own mug. “I just got it at a charity shop. It was like 25p, I think.”

Martin wandered over to the couch, and fell down onto it. Jon followed, slowly perching himself upon the edge of it. Lucy trotted over, and sat herself down by Martin’s feet. Martin grinned widely at her, and stroked her coat tenderly. Her eyes drifted shut as she found peace beside him. Jon felt himself smile at the sight – Martin suited Lucy, and Lucy suited Martin. She was a nice moment of colour and life in the otherwise bleak flat.

“Do – do you think it will help?” asked Jon, and he pointed his cup towards the dog. “Having her here, I mean.”

“I… I think so,” he said. There was a brief period of silence. “Yeah, I do. Less lonely anyway, you know?”

Jon hummed. He knew lonely.

“Jon,” said Martin quietly. Jon made a small sound in response. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded. “That depends – what is it?”

“Why did you leave Oxford?” He asked, and then, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to – I’m just being nosy, really.”

Oh.

“I really wanted to teach high schoolers,” said Jon, with a weak laugh.

“Jon,” he repeated, somehow softer this time. Martin always managed to say his name so softly; it sounded like he was talking about someone else when he said Jon, someone better – someone who deserved that softness.

“I left of my volition,” said Jon, with a sound of defeat. “But I may have been nudged to that decision by some of my seniors.”

“Why did they want you to leave?” asked Martin.

It didn’t feel like Martin was trying to pry into his life, or treat his story like motorist going past a car crash; with a morbid fascination for his crumbled life. It – well, it sounded like he cared. Not in the way his old colleagues had cared – not out of ticking boxes on a moral spreadsheet, or of obligation. Jon saw it in his eyes; soft, with the whisper of a crease at the edges, and the slow curve of his warm smile. He looked so painfully genuine when he asked.

And it was scary.

Jon sighed heavily. There was a part of him that didn’t want to talk about it, wanted to shut it down – say goodbye, and leave Martin’s flat and the whole conversation. But there was also a part of him that desperately wanted to open up, and open up to Martin.

For the first time, in a very long time, that latter part seemed the strongest.

“I hit a rough patch,” he began. “I became very stressed, very paranoid, some would say. I was unable to stay on top of my workload, I was missing lectures; I wasn’t really eating or sleeping much. I sort of, ah – fell apart, I guess. I was, uh – given some time off. For health reasons. I was to get help.”

“Did you?”

Jon worried his bottom lip. “Yes, I did. I went to counselling; I did all that stuff. Got my head together.” He gave a small laugh. “And I went back to work. It would have been fine – but, god, the things people said about me when I went back.” He paused for a moment. “Martin, Oxford is a very prestigious institute, filled with some of the most egotistical, self-serving wankers I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

Martin gave a soft laugh at that, and Jon allowed himself a smile. He took a moment, and savoured the feeling of hot tea against his lips and in his hands. Martin really did make a terrific cup of tea.

“There were some donors who thought the idea of bringing back the man who had a, uh - a nervous breakdown didn’t fit right with Oxford’s image.” He gave a small sound of annoyance. “Of course, they could never fire me on those grounds – but certain members of staff found a loophole of not so gently nudging me towards quitting. God forbid we lose our precious donors. Not like Oxford is struggling financially, or anything.”

“I’m sorry, Jon.”

Jon shook his head. “I’m not. Not anymore. I was – god, I was mad. It all felt so unjust, I had worked hard for that position, harder than some of my seniors could claim. But, Christ, I was miserable. They shouldn’t have gone about it the way they did, but…” He trailed off for a moment. “I don’t need that place, the way I always thought I did.”

“How do you mean?”

“Being a lecturer at Oxford… you tell people that and immediately they have a preconception of you; and - and that’s easier a lot of the time. You don’t have to worry about how people read you; people immediately put what they associate with the institute on you, and usually that’s a positive thing.” He took a deep breath. “Losing that, I lost a lot of my identity I think.” He turned his face to look at Martin, who met his gaze with ease. He gave Jon a comforting smile. “Suddenly, I was just… just Jon.”

His statement hung in the room, and he could almost see the words floating upwards like smoke signals. It felt quite cathartic watching them diffuse into the space. There was a soft silence between the two for a moment. Until Martin broke it.

“For what it’s worth, I think just Jon is pretty wonderful.”

He didn’t know how to reply to that. He wanted to argue with Martin, to point out all the reasons why he was wrong. Countless reasons tickled the tip of his tongue, trying to lure their way out in that sickly-sweet way they always presented themselves in.

“Oh,” was all he could say. Martin smiled a little at that, and Jon felt a small invisible weight pull itself from his shoulders.

“Thank you,” said Martin.

“Thank you?”

“For telling me,” said Martin. “It’s not easy sharing stuff like that.”

“Oh,” said Jon again. He gave a small nod, and took another sip. “Well – you’re welcome, I suppose.”

Martin laughed, and it was so beautifully gentle that for a moment Jon felt transfixed on the sound. Hearing Martin laugh always felt like how it felt to hear your favourite song played in a store, or rediscovering an album from your childhood. There was a relief and peace to the sound, that made Jon feel lighter, and brighter. He swallowed.

“Tim thought that you had left due to your criminal tendencies,” said Martin, and then quickly, “I won’t tell him, don’t worry. I think he quite likes the thought of you as a mastermind, anyway.”

“Maybe that’s the real reason,” said Jon, raising his eyebrow teasingly.

Martin snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“I could be a mastermind!” he declared with a scoff. Martin made a show of rolling his eyes. “What? I – I could be.”

“Not a very good one,” said Martin. “You just blew your cover.”

“Oh? You’re going to lecture me on being a good criminal?”

“No, that would be blowing _my_ cover.” A beat passed. “Shit.”

Jon laughed, and Martin’s smile broke into a grin. He knocked his knee against Jon’s momentarily. Ripples of warmth spread out from the gentle sensation.

“Alright, I should probably take Lucy for a walk – get her acquainted with the neighbourhood,” said Martin. “Do you want to come?”

His mouth instantly began to form the word yes, but he halted himself quickly. Visions of paperwork to mark, and emails to return flashed before him. He would regret it if he let himself fall behind.

“Ah, I should probably head off,” said Jon, with a small shake of his head. “Thank you, though – for the offer.”

“No worries,” he said. “I’ll – I’ll walk you to the door.”

Jon placed his drained cup onto the coffee table, and rose to his feet beside Martin. Jon gave a cursory wave to Lucy, who had opened her eyes at the sound at them moving, and was watching them. Martin opened the door for Jon, and he slipped passed.

“I’ll see you on Monday, Jon,” said Martin.

“Monday,” repeated Jon. “Yes, Monday – work. At work.”

He hesitated in the doorway for a moment, before clumsily taking a step forward and very cautiously bringing his arms up around Martin. It was an admittedly awkward attempt at an embrace. He heard a soft ‘oh’ from Martin as he hugged him, and then felt Martin’s hands fall against the small of his back. He gave a gentle squeeze.

Jon pulled back, feeling warmth rise to his cheeks. Martin was wearing a similar flush, adorned with a fond smile. He looked down at him, with such a sincere warmth in his eyes, that made Jon’s chest flutter. A strand of hair fell forward onto Martin’s face, and Jon felt his hand twitch, yearning to push it back. His hair had grown a lot longer from when they had first met; the light curls now curved around his ear, flicking up at the bottom. It looked tantalisingly soft, and Jon wondered how it would feel to card his fingers through it.

In a different world, with a different Jon, maybe he would know.

“Jon?”

Fuck, how long had he been staring?

He blinked, and stumbled backwards. He swallowed, his throat feeling both dry and clammy, and then gave a terse cough. “Right – Martin, I will see you on Monday. Have a good afternoon.”

He quickly spun on his heels, and began his descent down the stairs, as Martin called out, “See you, Jon.” There was a note of bafflement in his tone that did not go unnoticed.

* * *

Spread out on his bed was an ocean of black lettering on white pages – organised in such a way that even the late Gertrude Robinson would have shamed him. Everything had begun in a neat pile, stacked atop his bedside table – easy to reach, and easy to maneuverer. However, halfway through every essay he would find that he had not processed a single word, and would start on the next one, throwing it wherever it would land; and hoping that maybe Lindsay Smith’s take on Shakespeare might find itself to be more entrancing.

It didn’t.

No fault to Lindsay, or the rest of his class; this was on him. His eyes followed the words, but his thoughts remained rooted in the memory of Martin’s fingers against his skin, and the feeling of warmth that had radiated from his smile, and the way that Jon had leaned into every glint of his eye, note of his laugh and flash of his smile like he was the goddamn sun and Jon was a tree unfurling before him.

Jon shook his head, and tried to plant his consciousness firmly into the printed sheet before him:

_‘William Shakespeare’s plays ‘Antony and Cleopatra’ and ‘Julius Caesar’ both explore how self-image leads to self-destruction. In Julius Caesar, Brutus’ pride and naivety lead to his eventual death … **Martin** …. as he loses hindsight in favour of honour, and makes mistake after mistake … **Martin’s hand against his** … to try to live up to his Roman legacy. He sees himself as a noble Roman, and fails to see … **His laugh** … the faults in those around him due to his obsession over … **‘You looked like you needed it’** … his own image. In ‘Antony and Cleopatra’ Mark Antony is faulted by infatuation, and internal conflict over his love for Cleopatra … ‘ **Do you trust me?’** … and duty to Rome. Yet … **‘Yes’** … he sees himself … ‘ **Just Jon is pretty wonderful’** … as superior, and feels the rules do not apply to him the same way they do to other. Both of … **Martin** … these characters define themselves as Roman, however, and … **Martin** … with a Roman comes … **Martin** … honour. Honour is … **Martin** … the greatest image of themselves they can have ... **Martin.** ’_

Suddenly, the muddy waters of his thoughts became clear, and that thought that he had been unable to grasp crystallised before him.

Ah.

This was going to be inconvenient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically 'take your advanced higher English essay on Shakespeare and make it gay'
> 
> Thank you for reading! The next chapter should be up on whatever day next friday is???  
> Comments and Kudos are very appreciated!  
> I'm on tumblr at Buccata if you want to chat! xoxo


	9. Bitcoin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I bought Cooking Mama last month,” said Amy, looking entirely crestfallen. “Are they going to mine me?”  
> “You’re fucked, Amy,” said Dylan, shaking his head. “Absolutely fucked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is honestly just a bit of fun :D  
> It's also a shorter one, it made the next chapter too long - so it's just like a mini wee one, but it felt too short to post as a regular update. Ah, anyway! Hope you all enjoy :D

It was raining.

Big, heavy drops, slapped against the open window of Jon’s classroom. He always opened the window when it rained; he just liked it. He liked the percussive drum of the rain against concrete, and the dulcet hiss of wet winds. He liked the way everything smelt cleaner afterwards, as the drains carried away the stale and dank stink of the polluted London air. He liked the way the water had splashed on his skin, as he swam his hand out of open windows on long car rides. His grandmother had always scolded him for doing that as a child.

“You’ll get your arm yanked off by a lorry!” she would snap, pulling him back inside the vehicle, her gaze never leaving the road. He would huff, and then, once forgotten – would sneak a few fingers through the crack of the window and let his hands soak in the misty air.

Being British, you learn to love the rain – or you move.

Martin seemed to enjoy the rain too, judging by his mesmerised gaze out at the window. His head was propped up in his hands, as he perched atop of one of the desks in Jon’s classroom. In his other hand, he clasped a book – ‘The Impossible Dead’, a recommendation from Jon. It was his copy that was slipped between Martin’s fingers.

“I need your help,” said Jon, his voice sounding too harsh against the soft atmosphere.

Martin looked to him, expectantly. It had become something of a routine the last two weeks, for Martin to join Jon in his classroom during the lunch break. He had come in for a quick chat, but the two had gotten tied up in conversation, and had ended up just eating together, their lunch boxes spread across the desks. Jon usually didn’t leave his classroom during lunch – it was never so much a break, just a break from students.

Martin had chastised him, and lectured him on the importance of giving your brain time off … blah, blah, blah. It was stuff Jon had heard a thousand times, but it was the first time he was actually taking the advice onboard – if only because Martin strictly enforced it, with his now routine presence.

He wasn’t going to pretend he minded, and he wouldn’t have been able to when every time Martin’s mess of curls appeared at his door, his heart did a flip. In terms of instant relief, Martin was a cold drink on a hot day.

“Mmh,” said Martin, as he slid his finger between the pages of the book, and closed it against his hand. Jon held up two DVD cases on either side of his head.

“Shark Tale or Pirates of the Caribbean?”

“Which Pirates of the Caribbean is it?”

Jon turned the case towards him, and squinted. He slipped his glasses down from where they sat atop of his head, acting as a hairband. “Four.”

Martin pulled a face. “Are those the only options?”

Jon tossed the discs to his desk, and leant back in his chair. “The English departments cinema selection is lacking, for a better word.”

With exam season looming, and most of his time and energy being taken up with soothing anxious senior students, Jon had elected to treat his younger years with a film – they would be happy, he would be asleep; it was the perfect trade.

“I think they might be more entertained with a lesson plan,” said Martin, wrinkling his nose up in and endearing manner.

“Well, this was my lesson plan,” huffed Jon. Martin jumped down from the desk, and made his way over towards Jon. He picked up one of the DVD cases and looked to be reading the blurb. A beat passed.

“Do Pirates - everyone loves pirates,” said Martin, with a note of finality, as he placed the box down in front of Jon. “Used to want to be a pirate.”

“Oh? What happened?”

Martin snorted. “Terrified of the ocean, alongside multiple other factors …” Jon laughed. Martin paused for thought. “I think I just wanted the hat.”

“Nothing’s stopping you from wearing a pirate hat,” pointed out Jon. “Elias might have a dress code concern, though.”

“Maybe not. His husband is a, uh - a sea captain, I think. Or something along those lines. He might approve,” he said with a small laugh.

Jon tried to picture Elias, clean-cut and immaculate, standing next to a gruff seaman – it was an odd image. He also tried to picture Elias’s face showing any form of fondness, let alone love. Something about the man made it look like his muscles wouldn’t even know how to smile. Aside from their chat on Jon’s second day, he hadn’t spoken to him much. There were nods in passing, out of politeness; and occasionally he would get cornered in the staff room as he rinsed his mug clean, as Elias ‘Checked in’ with him. There was always a mild nausea that followed each minor interaction. Elias was the plague, and Jon was keen to avoid it.

Martin glanced at his phone, and Jon caught a glimpse at his wallpaper – it was a selfie of him and Lucy. He had his arm draped over his body, and her muzzle was pressed against his smiling cheek. Jon bit down a small smile, it was a terribly endearing photo.

“How’s Lucy doing?” He asked. Martin looked up, clicking his phone off.

“She’s great,” he grinned. “I know it’s been less than a month, but I honestly think I would die for her. Do you want to see photos?”

Jon didn’t have time to respond, before Martin was pressed against him, holding his phone out in front of them. That friendly smell of orange blossom bloomed beside him, and Jon wanted nothing more than to just sink into Martin. He treated himself to a few flickered looks at Martin, whose lips were moving, saying something about something; but Jon couldn’t understand him, his thoughts enraptured by what it would feel like to lean over and kiss him.

“Sorry,” broke through. Jon blinked. “Pretty boring sitting through a slideshow,” said Martin.

“No,” said Jon, his voice sounding unusually rough. He cleared his throat. “No, it’s – it’s nice. I like seeing them. I like this one, you look nice, ah – Lucy looks nice.”

He pointed towards the photo before him, held loosely in Martin’s grasp. It was another selfie, but it was different than the one as his lock screen. Lucy took up most of the frame, but Jon could see half of Martin, who was lying in bed, with sleep in his eyes and ruffled hair. The warm glow of the morning made the freckles on his cheeks look to be glowing, like resplendent paint splatters. Lucy was nuzzled against his chest, her eyes shut in respite. When the screen died, Jon mourned silently for the photo.

“Oh,” said Martin. His cheeks turned a gentle shade of pink. “Thank you.”

The bell sounded; cutting through the soft mellow vibe of the room. Above them, footsteps began to thud. Martin pocketed the phone, and straightened upwards. Jon gave a groan, and rubbed his eyes. He did not have the energy to deal with his year 11 GCSE class – especially not this particular one. The door swung open, and a few students began to amble in, uncharacteristically early for a couple of them. Some waved at them – Martin waved back, and Jon nodded in acknowledgement.

“Ah, well - talk to you later, Mr Sims,” said Martin, reverting back to his teacher voice. Jon rolled his eyes.

“Have a good day, Mr Blackwood.”

* * *

The clocked ticked impatiently above him, counting down to the end of the day. Jon was dreaming of falling into his bed, with the Admiral atop of him, and sleeping for a very, very long time. His cheek melted into his hand as he lazily slouched over his desk. He craned his head slightly to look out at the classroom; most heads were down, busy going over the last few years exam papers. A single hand was up, it belonged to a boy named Dylan, who was notorious for asking pointless questions, with the sole purpose of disrupting classes and infringing on Jon’s personal life.

“Yes, Dylan,” he said with a sigh.

“Can I cross reference Big Brother with the text in the exam,” he said, dropping his hand, and letting his chin fall into it.

Jon pulled a face. “Are you asking if you can cross reference the reality show ‘Big Brother’ with George Orwell’s ‘1984’?”

Dylan nodded simply. “Aye, sir – it’s, like, inspired by it and shit.”

“Don’t swear.”

“And stuff,” he corrected. “Would comparing them not highlight how differently we view being like watched, and stuff – it’s, like, contrasting, sir.”

Jon blinked. “I suggest you just stick to the text, Dylan.”

Dylan rolled his eyes, and slumped forward momentarily, before shooting his hand skyward again. Jon sighed. “Yes, Dylan.”

“Sir, did you know that Cooking Mama is mining Bitcoin?”

“What?”

“Nah,” piped up another student, Liam Macloed. “Nah, Nintendo said that’s not true.”

“Of course Nintendo denied it, you absolute knob-head,” said Dylan, spinning around in his chair to face the other student.

“Language,” warned Jon.

“This article says it’s not mining it,” chimed in Jude, who was looking down at her phone.

“No phones in class.”

“That’s Big Brother!” cried Dylan. He jammed a finger against his temple. “That’s what they want you to think.”

“That’s not – ”

“I bought Cooking Mama last month,” said Amy, looking entirely crestfallen. “Are they going to mine me?”

“You’re fucked, Amy,” said Dylan, shaking his head. “Absolutely fucked.”

“Can everyone please be quiet!” snapped Jon, throwing his hands up. “For Christ sake – no one is getting mined for bitcoin!”

The class faded into quiet, the attention now on him. He let out a long sigh, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You have your exams in less than three weeks,” he pointed out. “I can promise you all, that none of these things - ” he gestured towards Dylan, and towards Amy’s phone. “None of that will come up on the exam. Now, can we please get back to the past papers?”

A few coughs sounded throughout the room, but besides that – silence. He put his face in his hands, and let his shoulders sag for a moment. There was a sudden knock on the door, and his head shot up. There was a small part of him that expected it to be Martin, but instead it was another student. He pushed down the small feeling of disappointment, as he beckoned her in with his hand. She quickly darted into the room.

“Hiya, Miss Bradshaw said you had the GCSE textbooks,” she said, twiddling her fingers together as she spoke.

“Ah, yes,” said Jon, standing up. “I assume she needs them.”

The girl nodded, and Jon hummed in response as he made his way over to the yellow filing cabinet that he had put them in. “How many do you need?”

“She said twelve.”

He pulled out the required amount, and transferred it to her waiting hands. She grunted slightly under the weight, but gave him a smile, nonetheless. “Thanks!”

Jon made his way back to his desk, as she made her way to the exit. Jon looked around the room; another students hand was up – Sandra was her name.

“Yes,” he said, gesturing towards her.

“What’s bitcoin?”


	10. Flowers in December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Obviously, I didn’t know it was going to rain, did I? I’m sorry I don’t have Paddington – bloody – bears wardrobe,” he snapped back.  
> Martin looked down to the bright red boots that were on his feet, clicking the heels together as if he were in the Wizard of Oz. “It’s not – is it? Do – Do I look like Paddington Bear?”  
> Jon made a vague, noncommittal sound. “You – you don’t not look like Paddington Bear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter title is from Flowers in December by Mazzy Star - a very, very beautiful song)  
> Ello, ello lads, hope you're all doing well this fine Friday xox  
> I want to thank my wonderful friend Alyssa for beta reading this chapter, and a lot of the ones to come. She's been posting a beautiful fic which you can find here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24933925/chapters/60346780
> 
> Go check it out! It's great, and she's great.
> 
> Also want to thank my other wonderful friend Amelia, for helping me with a lot of this book - and for putting up with about a dozen 'I don't know where to go from here' messages
> 
> ALSO! Slight TW for this chapter - there are discussions of grief, and loss. It's not that intensive, but if it something you struggle to read about, I do suggest giving this chapter a miss. I can give a summery in the end notes.
> 
> (also, also, also: I am INCAPABLE of making an OC not Scottish, I don't know why - there are so many Scots in my version of London)

It was still raining when Jon stepped out onto the street. It was heavier now, coming down in thick sheets, and the dark clouds that loomed overhead whispered warnings of thunder. He shivered, and brought his thin jacket tighter around his frame.

Yes, Jon liked rain – when there was some semblance of cover over his head. Out on the street, exposed to the elements, the feeling was a much different one. 

By the time he had gotten to the bottom of the school steps, he was already soaked through. His hair was plastered against his face, like lines on a map marking rivers, and his glasses had become pin pricked with moisture, and quickly obsolete. He peeled them off, and attempted to wipe them dry on the cuff of his jacket. The sodden fabric smeared the droplets, and blurred his vision further. He sighed, and pocketed them into his pocket. He was at the end of the street, when he heard a cry:

“Jon!”

He stopped, and spun around to face the voice. He squinted at the form as it approached, until the bokeh form sharpened to reveal Martin, holding an umbrella.

“Jon,” he said again, as he quickly rushed over. “You’re going to catch your death. Get under here.”

Jon blinked, as rain trickled down his face. “It’s fine.”

Martin rolled his eyes, and extended the umbrella. “Jon, stop being stubborn – come on.”

Jon faltered. Martin gave a loud, dramatic sigh, and stepped in closer to Jon, so that the umbrella was being held over both of them. 

“Better?”

“Thank you,” muttered Jon. 

Martin laughed, and then took a moment to look at him. “You’re practically dressed for Summer, Jon. It’s chucking it down.”

“Obviously, I didn’t know it was going to rain, did I? I’m sorry I don’t have Paddington – _bloody_ – Bears wardrobe,” he snapped back.

Martin looked down to the bright red boots that were on his feet, clicking the heels together as if he were in the Wizard of Oz. “It’s not – is it? Do – Do I look like Paddington Bear?”

Jon made a vague, noncommittal sound. “You – you don’t _not_ look like Paddington Bear.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?” said Martin, his brows gently furrowed, and Jon had to push away the thought of kissing the creases against his forehead.

“That entirely depends on your opinion of Paddington,” replied Jon, as he pushed the wet strands of hair away from his face.

“Well, what’s your opinion on Paddington?”

“I – I don’t have an opinion on Paddington, Martin.”

“You don’t have an opinion -”

“Martin,” sighed Jon. “Can we please have this discussion at a later, _ dryer _ time?”

Martin muttered something under his breath, that Jon could only vaguely make out. He gave a found eyeroll as they began to walk. The rain had created a thin carpet along the road, and they sloshed through it. Jon’s socks were becoming increasingly wetter, and they squelched uncomfortably with each step.

Why had he worn loafers?

They crossed the street, passing by a row of shops that Jon had never paid any mind to on his usual commute home. It wasn’t until Jon felt rain hitting his head, that he realised that Martin had stopped. 

He was standing outside what looked to be a florist, underneath a striped awning. Rain encased the store, as thick streams of water rolled down the covering and onto the street. Jon sighed, and breached the waterfall, returning to Martin’s side. 

“Sorry,” said Martin, shaking the droplets of water away from his umbrella as he closed it. “Do you mind? I won’t be long.”

“Take your time.”

Martin held the door open for him as they entered. The store was cast in a warm orange light, a stark contrast from the wet, grey outdoors. Shelves lined the wall, filled with plant life. Greenery and colour cascaded down them. In the corner, woven baskets housed bundles of flowers, wrapped in brown paper packing. There was an earthy smell to the place – not unpleasant; but similar to freshly mowed grass, or tilled soil.

The shopkeeper smiled at them as they entered, and looked to Martin with a sense of fond familiarity. “Afternoon,” he said. “It’s been a wee while.”

Martin gave a soft laugh as he walked over to him, leaving Jon to peruse the store. “Yeah, sorry. I’ve just – ah, just been busy, is all.”

“Wish I could say the same,” said the man. He gestured to the store; minus the two, there were no other customers. Martin laughed again, a neat and polite sound. “Just the usual?”

He said it with the same dictation a ruffled bartender would ask the rugged detective in a movie. What the ‘usual’ was, Jon didn’t know. He hadn’t seen any plant life in Martin’s flat that would indicate a standard; nary a cactus or a succulent in sight. 

Martin seemed to know, though, as he fished out a ten-pound note from his wallet, and placed it onto the desk. The man took it, as he clicked the till open. The sound of change rattled, and then another slam as it shut.

“Someday for it,” said the man. He had moved to a desk behind the till. It was covered in cut off steams, twine and scissors. It looked to be where he made the bouquets that lined the store. 

Martin hummed in reply, nodding gently. Then he looked over to Jon, and gave him an apologetic smile. In the soft light of the store, he looked almost ethereal. A warm glow haloed his curls, highlighting the damp frizz. And then, with that smile, he glowed.

Jon floated over to him, and gently pressed his fingertips against the counter, feeling the warm sturdy wood beneath his fingers. Martin’s hands were also pressed flush against the counter, as if the counter were the only thing holding him up. There was a sadness to his face as he watched the florist package white lilies in brown paper, and a heaviness to his shoulders that Jon had not yet seen him carry.

He caught Jon’s eye, and gave him another apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

Jon shook his head, and broke his gaze. “Nonsense, Martin.”

The florist returned to the counter, and placed the bouquet down before them. Martin took in his hands, the brown paper crinkling gently as he did so.

“Thank you,” he said.

The florist smiled. “Aye, well - I hope she likes them.”

“I don’t think she has much of a say,” replied Martin, his voice low. There was the briefest of pauses, and then Martin cleared his throat, and turned to Jon. “Right, we should – lets go. Thank you, Andrew.”

Ah, so that was his name.

Andrew gave a wave, and a farewell, as the two left the store. The rain was beginning to let up, now just a scattered trickle from above. Martin opened the umbrella anyway, wrestling between the handle and the bouquet. He tucked the flowers under his armpit, his tongue peeking out as he pushed open the brolly. 

It was painfully endearing to watch.

“So,” said Jon, “who are the flowers for?”

Martin looked to him, his cheeks turning a rosy shade. “Oh, uh – they’re for my mum.”

“Oh.” Jon blinked. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, and began to walk, making sure Jon was next to him as he extended the cover over their heads. “I, uh – I keep meaning to go visit her. Today seems as good a day as any.”

Jon hummed, as he looked out onto the sodden street. “Really?”

Martin let out a sudden laugh. “I know it’s very sappy, but – I don’t know. The rain makes it feel… symbolic? Poetic.”

“The rain makes it feel bloody cold.”

“That too,” said Martin, with a nod. He gestured to the umbrella. “I’ll drop you off at the station.”

“I could come with you,” said Jon suddenly. Martin turned his head to face him as they walked, and blinked a few times. His expression was a mixture of curiosity, uncertainty and a hint of gratefulness. 

“Or – or not,” continued Jon, as Martin continued to not reply. 

“You want to?”

Want was maybe the wrong word, thought Jon. He didn’t want to, per say - but he wanted to go with Martin, or just be there for Martin. Or just be with Martin. Just – Martin.

“Yes,” he said. “I could be, uh – moral support.”

Martin smiled gently. “I mean, I’m not going to argue against your company – but, are you sure? You really don’t have to.”

“Yes, I’m sure, Martin,” said Jon, with an air of finality to his voice.

“Cool,” said Martin, that smile still present. “That’s – that’s cool.”

It had stopped raining by the time they reached the wide gates of the cemetery. A tall, stone arch hung overhead, welcoming them in, and gravel crunched underfoot as they crossed the threshold. An entanglement of tombstones lined the pathway, ranging from decrepit to freshly etched. Many of the graves bloomed with bouquets of flowers, and small tokens for the deceased.

Jon thought of his parent’s graves, and his grandmothers. There was no one left to leave flowers on their graves, and Jon couldn’t bring himself to travel down to Bournemouth solely for the sentiment. It wasn’t like they would be able to appreciate them, anyway.

Martin led them through the stone maze, clutching the bouquet of lilies in his hands with a white knuckled grip. He manoeuvred the space with ease, following each winding path with a lack of hesitancy that showed that he had made this commute many times before. 

It was at the back, nestled between two other graves. It looked new; granite black, with the name Agatha Blackwood carved into it, followed by her date of birth and death. Martin’s pace slowed as it came into frame, and Jon observed as a wash of emotions crossed over his face. He bit down on his lip, and let out a long breath, before he took the final step towards the gravestone. 

His shoulders were tight as he bent down to place the bouquet atop the muddy soil. With the cuff of his sleeve, he wiped an imaginary speck of dirt away from the stone. Martin stayed crouched for a moment longer, before letting out a sigh, and returning upright. He rolled onto the balls of his feet, and intertwined his fingers, contorting them.

“Hey, mum,” he said, with a tight laugh. His voice sounded different, and unlike Jon had ever heard it before. He sounded more hesitant, unsure – younger, almost. “How are you?”

The ground didn’t reply. 

“Uh, this is my friend – Jon,” said Martin, gesturing over towards where Jon was standing. Upon hearing his name, he took a step closer, and gave an involuntary wave towards the stone. “Yeah, he’s – uh, he’s …” he sighed. “This is stupid.”

“Do you want a minute alone?” asked Jon, his voice soft. “I, uh – I could come back later?”

Martin shook his head. “No. Thank you, though. It’s – ah, just a bit silly talking to dirt, isn’t it?”

“If it makes you feel better, then …” he faded off. Martin twisted his lips, and continued to worry his fingers against one another.

“I don’t think it does,” he said. He gave an empty laugh. “I don’t really know what I’m meant to do – or feel, to be honest.”

Jon looked down at the gravestone before them, as the rain beaded down it, turning to mud where it met the dirt below. He toed it gently, feeling the wet soil squelch against his shoes. 

He thought of his own loss; of his grandmother, and of his mother and father. 

His memories of his parents never moved, they were creased at the edges and faded. They were snapshots of people, entombed behind glass picture frames. As a child, he would run his fingers over the glass, tracing the curves of their faces against his own – trying, desperately searching for a link between them. That’s my mother, he would say to the glass, and to which the glass would fog up in reply. 

If he tried really hard, he could give them life. He could pretend his mother smiled the same way he did, or that his father also squinted when he read. When he had listened to his grandmother talk, he would try to soften her voice in his head and imagine that’s what his mother sounded like. He wondered if she would’ve yelled at him as much.

How did that make him feel, though? It wasn’t sadness, or heartbreak; it didn’t hurt. It was just … there; this emptiness in his chest that pretended to be grief, because that’s what everyone else had called it. 

“You don’t have to feel anything if you don’t,” said Jon.

“But I should,” said Martin, quietly. “She – she was my mother, Jon. I should – I should feel something, right? Grief, or – or something. ”

He took a tentative step closer to Martin, and placed his hand against the other man’s arm. He gave it a soft squeeze. Overhead, a tree swayed, it’s branches straining towards them as if it were attempting to offer comfort. It creaked with the wind, ebbing backwards and forwards like the tide. A moment of silence passed between the two.

“Grief isn’t a singular emotion, Martin,” he said, quietly. “We all experience it differently – there isn’t a wrong way to react to it. Sadness is to be expected, but – but it’s not always that simple.”

Martin considered his words for a moment. “You’ve lost people, haven’t you?”

He nodded. “My parents, when I was younger – and my grandmother, a few years ago now.”

Martin placed his hand against the one Jon had placed against him, and gave it a squeeze. “I’m sorry, Jon. For your loss, for …” He gave another squeeze.

Jon took a deep breath. “Thank you, Martin. I don’t – hm, I don’t really view it like that, though.”

Martin didn’t say anything, a silent prompt for him to continue.

“I don’t think someone passing away is a loss,” he began. “We call it that, because we lose someone. But our relationships with people, the reason we care for them and mourn them, is because of an accumulation of feelings and memories. Those things don’t go away when someone dies. Loss is not immediate, it is a slow process – one that we go through our whole lives, as those memories and feelings fade.”

He took a breath. “I don’t have any memories of my parents. It – it doesn’t feel like traditional loss to me.” Another pause, as he wetted his lips. “It’s a different type; not a loss of what I had, but a loss for what I never could have had. Hm, the best way I could describe it is regret. I – I don’t quite know why, though.”

Martin gave his hand another squeeze, and looked to him, with such a fierce sincerity that made Jon want to look away. His skin felt like glass, but Martin looked at him with cotton eyes that wrapped his fragile form up tightly. He felt safe. 

There wasn’t a word Martin could have said, nor a sentence he could’ve weaved that Jon would’ve taken over that look, and that touch. Jon thought of everything he had been through, every mistake he made, every person he had lost; all those pathways had converged to have him standing there, in that moment, with that look. 

The person he had become, the person he had hated – hell, still hated some nights – that person had gotten him there – and it felt worth it.

He gave Martin’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you.”

Martin, still saying nothing, brought his arms up around Jon – an awkward, side hug that Jon stumbled into. Martin laughed, not out of mirth nor mourn, but just to make a sound; and it played, like it often did, as a melody. 

He held Jon in his arms, tightly, swaddling him in the dampness of his raincoat. Jon had never let himself be comforted for his loss – he had always said that they were never his to lose. He didn’t feel like he earned the sadness that their passing had gifted, but, there, in Martin’s arms – he let himself grieve for his family. 

He didn’t cry. He just let himself feel sad, and that was more than he had ever allowed himself to feel. 

They stayed like that, for a length of time that Jon couldn’t count. It could’ve been a second, or it could’ve been an hour. When the silence was broken, Jon felt like he had been woken from a dream.

“Jesus, Jon – you’re soaking,” said Martin, his voice muffled against Jon. 

Jon croaked out a garbled laugh, as he pulled away from Martin. There was a patch of darkness against Martin’s coat – a wet stain from the embrace. He grimaced, and looked down at the cuffs of his jacket, which dripped rhythmically. 

“Come on, my flats near,” said Martin, gesturing vaguely in the direction with his head. “We’ll … I don’t know – blast you with a hairdryer, or something.”

“It’s really okay, Ma - ” He cut himself off with a sneeze. “ – tin.”

“Come on.”

He placed Martin’s umbrella by the door as he entered his flat. The bright colours stood out against the grey of the hallway. In his hand, he carried a plastic bag, and his sodden coat dripped through the holes of it. He peeled it from the bag, and hung it up over the coat rack. It would drip onto the floor, but he was too tired to care. 

He padded over towards the bathroom, flipping the fluorescent light on that hummed alongside the clanking of the fan. His reflection stared at him from the doorway, draped in Martin’s clothes.

A ‘nice preventive measure against hypothermia’ he had said, as he’d pushed the dry clothes into Jon’s soaked hands. The shirt swamped him, much like it had the first time he’d borrowed Martin’s clothes. It felt different, though. It wasn’t some forgotten shirt of his, shoved into a discarded gym bag – this was something he wore regularly. It felt soft between his fingers, gently worn down over time and use. The gentle weight of it hung off him, like the memory of an embrace. It smelt warm, and homely – it smelt like Martin.

He missed the warmth as soon as he peeled it off, turning the shower on, and letting the room fill with steam. The hot water hit him with a sigh, as he allowed the pressure of the water to push away the wet clammy shell he was cocooned into. He watched the bubbles swirl by his feet, as they curved around the drain, and fell away from him. Georgie had told him to envision that it was his worries that were drifting down the drain – some meditative technique she had picked up from a different ex.

It never worked, but he did it anyway.

The cold air clung to him as he stepped out of the shower, bringing a towel around his body, and patting the damp away. He wrapped one around his head, the same way Georgie always did. Memories of a younger Jon played at the thought – memories of him and Georgie, hair bundled up in cotton, sitting on the floor of their god-awful flat and just talking in a way Jon wasn’t able to anymore; just easy. He envied that younger Jon; uninhibited by the invincibility of youth, pushed forward by potential. 

Rose-tinted glasses, and such.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summery:
> 
> Jon gets caught in rain, Martin has umbrella - they walk together. Martin goes into a florist and gets lilies, Jon is like ???? and Martin is like they are for my mother, I am going to visit her grave. Jon is like I shall come, and then they go to the graveyard and talk about loss, and their experience with grief.  
> Then Jon goes home, and just like vibes in his shower, and Martin gave him a clean shirt cause he was soaked and he is like I love this shirt and I am gay
> 
> And that's what you missed on Glee xox 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are bread for the soul and I am at Buccata if yall wanna chat xox


	11. Titan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Martin’s end, he could hear shuffling. It sounded like he was moving. “Okay! I can be there in – say, twenty minutes?”  
> “Jon! What did I just fucking say?” exclaimed Melanie, as she suddenly lunged for his phone. He darted quickly to the side, just missing her swing.  
> “Jon?” he heard Martin say through the speakers, as he dodged Melanie’s next assailed attempt. “Oh my god, are you actually getting murdered by the side of the road?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mechanic!Martin fic no one asked for
> 
> Hope yall enjoy this weeks chapter! xox

How had he let Georgie talk him into this? Hell, how had Melanie let Georgie talk her into this?

“Cause you’re my friend, and that’s what friends do,” she had said, with her hands pressed together in prayer under her chin. He was hardly going to have asked her to beg – so yes, he agreed. But he wasn’t going to pretend he was happy with the arrangement.

‘What the Ghost’ was undergoing some creative changes. With the shows now steady revenue, Georgie and Melanie had decided to expand – visually. No longer would their tales of gruesome and crime be reduced to an mp3 file. ‘What the Ghost’ was going to be debuting on YouTube in a matter of weeks, in a series titled Ghost Hunt UK. Which meant that they would need a set – and a set needed props. Which brought Jon to Georgie’s favour, and to the side of the road. If he had to name the street, he would call it ‘Middle of Bloody Nowhere’.

It was the perfect place to be murdered, he thought to himself – and he most likely was going to be, as Melanie King hopped out of the black van marked ‘What the Ghost’. Georgie lovingly referred to it as the Mystery Machine – Jon referred to it as an insurance liability. It was a crumbling hunk of metal on wheels, and the exhaust pipe constantly spluttered and coughed like a chronic smoker.

He had ridden in it once before, after Georgie had helped him move out of his old flat and into hers. He had gripped the handle above him with all the fear of God in his veins. But that could very well be blamed on Georgie’s driving skills over the state of the van.

Melanie’s combat boots hit the concrete below them with seismic force. She looked how he felt; annoyed, pissed and very unhappy to see the other. He half debated waving, or smiling – or addressing her in any way that wasn’t the scowl that naturally bloomed in her presence.

Her shoulders were raised, her brow lowered, and her hand were nestled tightly inside the pocket of her jacket. Her stature gave the impression that she had read a ‘How to Be More Approachable’ Wiki article - in reverse.

“Jon.”

“Melanie.”

This was ridiculous.

“Should we…” he gestured vaguely over at the silver warehouse that sat across the street. He sighed, his head dropping for a moment. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t give me orders, Jon.”

“How is that – ” he cut himself off, and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out another sigh. He was not going to let Melanie rile him up – he had promised Georgie that much, anyway. Just like he promised her that he would assist Melanie with cultivating props for their show.

“Just get… I don’t know? Macabre shit?” Georgie had said. “Really spooky stuff. The website said they have real bones – get bones, get a lot of bones, Jon. Jon are you listening - ”

Then she had bitten his ear off about paying attention, and had scribbled the word ‘bone’ onto a post-it note and slapped it onto his face.

He didn’t know why – but he brought the note, like it was some sort of morbid shopping list. He wrapped his hand around where it sat, tucked into his pocket.

Melanie pulled open the heavy, industrial doors to the warehouse, and then threw it open a little wider for Jon. He caught it with a grunt, as the heavy metal hit him. She gave a smirk, and his jaw clenched.

Georgie owed him.

The lights of the reception buzzed above them – with that awful fluorescent tinnitus-like hum. A bored looking man was slumped across the main desk. He didn’t look up when they entered, and it wasn’t until Melanie loudly cleared her throat that he paid them any mind.

“Afternoon,” he said. His voice was low, dry and dripped with a heavy Glaswegian accent. “You’se the ghost folk?”

“What the Ghost,” corrected Melanie – he didn’t look like he cared. “And yes, we have an appointment at ten.”

“Right,” muttered the man, as he began to type something onto the computer next to him. He smacked his lips together as he stared blankly at the screen. It was a wet, and gummy sound, and wholly unpleasant. Jon tried to hide his grimace.

The buzz of a machine sounded to life, and the man pushed himself back from the desk and wheeled over to the printer behind him. Melanie tapped her fingers against the desk impatiently.

“I don’t know why Georgie insisted you come,” she said bluntly, shaking her head. “I can get the stuff myself.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Maybe she didn’t trust your judgement.”

“Oh, because you have such an eye for aesthetics?” she snapped.

“I didn’t want to come, either,” he reminded her. “I’m having as much of a miserable time as you are.”

“First time we’ve ever agreed on anything,” she scoffed.

“Yeah, well - first time for everything,” he countered. She laughed. The sound surprised him – it was a sharp and quick laugh, but it was the first time he had ever heard it on the tail end of something that wasn’t a jibe aimed at him.

The receptionist returned, and placed down two paper ID badges that read: Visitor - and then: The Ghosts.

“It’s What the Ghost,” said Melanie again, as she picked it up. The man’s expression didn’t sift in the slightest. She huffed slightly. “It’s – it doesn’t matter.”

“Sign,” he said, pulling out a clipboard with a timetable splashed across it. There were a few ink smudged names at the top of the page, filled with company titles and the duration of visit. Melanie took a pen from the side, and scribbled her name down. It was an almost unrecognisable stream of gibberish, but the man seemed content enough, and took the page back. He then handed them a packet of pink post-it notes, and another pen. “Write down your company name, and place it on any props you’re interested in. We’ll sort the rest.”

Melanie took them with a nod, and thumbed her finger through the colourful pages, akin to a gangster checking if a wad of cash held the correct amount. When seemingly satisfied, she slipped them into her pocket. The man gestured to the door beside him.

The inner part of the warehouse was expansive, filled with towering shelves that sectioned the space into alleyways and aisles. It looked like a toy store and a theatre had both thrown up in the room, leaving mannequins standing to attention to Jon’s left, and a crude mash of faux weaponry to his right. Above him, on top of the shelves lay an army of antique furniture. Rocking chairs sat stagnant, with wheels of pretend cheese resting on them. There was a smell of mustiness, and Jon could see flecks of dust dance in the garish light that shone down.

Melanie wasted no time, as she boosted down the first corridor.

Jon knew that she didn’t want to walk with him – or be with him, or associate with him, or … well, anything that involved him. But she had the post-it notes, and his presence was pointless without them.

He quickly picked up his pace, as he stumbled behind her. He watched her take in their surroundings, briefly stopping to touch a prop, before moving on quickly to the next. They passed a shelf that was filled, head to toe, with old army helmets – each shelf showed a different version, from perfectly polished to weathered beyond repair.

“These could work,” he said, stopping to run his hand over one of them. The feeling of grit read like braille under his touch. Melanie halted, and spun around, one hand on her hip.

“I don’t think so,” she said, shrugging dismissively. Jon gritted his teeth.

“Are you sure? Georgie said you guys were looking into - ” he fought down a sigh “ – ghost soldiers.”

A beat passed, and then, without breaking eye contact, Melanie pulled out the stack of post-it’s and scrawled onto it, before slapping it against one of the hats. Then, she promptly turned on her heel and continued down the aisle. Jon let out a long breath, and then continued behind her.

In his pocket, he felt a buzz. He fished his phone out as he walked, and slid the screen open.

From Martin: Hey! How’s your day going???

Jon felt the familiar warmth rise to his cheeks, as he bit down a smile.

“What are you grinning at?” he heard Melanie say. He looked up, and tried to compose his features back to normal. She raised an eyebrow. “What – did Shakespeare finally write something good?”

He killed the screen, and dropped the phone to his side. “Am I not allowed to smile?”

She pulled a face. “No, but it’s creepy when you do it. I didn’t know you knew how to.”

“Can we just - ” he gestured to the row of shelves beyond them. Then, Jon’s phone gave another burst of life, and he jumped a little at the sensation. Melanie’s lips curled into a smile, and she gave a slow nod.

“Ah, I see,” she said, in a smug tone that made Jon’s stomach twist. “C’mon, Jon – Georgie wants bones.”

“Right,” he said, following her. He brought his phone up, again, as they walked.

From Martin: IMG. 403

He clicked the small thumbnail, and a picture of Lucy, lazing on Martin’s couch filled his screen. She looked immensely peaceful lying there. He fought down another smile, and looked up at the back of Melanie’s head as she walked. He could swear that the creases in her jacket were glaring at him. He looked back to the phone in his hands, and began to type.

To Martin: I’m in a warehouse with a woman who hates me.

To Martin: Lucy looks very comfortable.

His phone buzzed again.

From Martin: Oh??? Why??

Melanie called him over before he could reply. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, and trudged over to where Melanie was wrestling with a giant box of… ah, yeah – bones. They were bones. By the looks of it, they were real – or just very convincing.

“I can’t believe it’s someone’s job to collect this stuff,” muttered Jon, as he helped her lay the box on the ground. Melanie barked a laugh, as she began to hold up each bone, carefully inspecting it.

“Of course you would say that.”

“What’s that meant to mean?”

She gave him a blank look, and then rolled her eyes. “You think every job that isn’t respectable,” she added air quotes with her fingers as she spoke, “is pointless. News flash, Jon – understanding whether or not some throwaway line of dialogue means something is hardly pivotal to society.”

Jon blinked. “Is this about what I said about your show? That was years ago, Melanie. I – I don’t understand why you can’t just – god, move on? Georgie hardly cared.”

“Of course she cared, Jon,” snapped Melanie, as she slapped a pink post-it to the box. “What you said about our show hurt – both of us. Just because she didn’t let on as much I did – as I do. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t pissed.” She pulled herself to her feet. “You basically told us that what we do is – is worthless!”

Jon swallowed.

“And – and you were off in Oxford, rubbing shoulders with folk who are somehow even more pretentious than you, and - and spitting on your best friend’s work! Do you have any idea how hard we had to work at the start? How much time and effort the two of us put into it – still put into it?” She ran a hand through her hair. “I’ll have you know, Jon – people like the show. People like our show. So what if we – if we add a bit of sparkle? People enjoy it, and - and that’s not worthless.”

Her chest rose and fell steadily, as she stared him dead in the eye.

“Are you quite done?”

She scoffed. “Unbelievable. You are such an arse, Jon.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

She stared at him for a moment, before sharply sucking in air. “Un – fucking - believable.”

She bent back down, and hoisted the box upwards. Jon moved to help, but a stony glare from Melanie sent him backwards. She slotted it home with a loud thud, and the metal of the cage rattled as it settled. She didn’t say anything before she continued through the warehouse.

Guilt began to fill him like concrete as he followed after her. The room suddenly felt too loud, as their steps echoed in tandem, and the lights overhead creaked and swayed. The thick rope of tension that wrapped around both of them grew tighter with each askance look and click of tongues. He kept his arms drawn tightly around him, like a sulking child trotting after their parent in a supermarket after being denied a toy.

He could be really pathetic when he wanted to be.

God – why did he do it, though?

Melanie irritated him, yes. But that was no reason for him to turn into a dismissive and pompous twat. She had stopped ahead of him, and was thumbing through a selection of old photographs. He hovered outside her perimeter, waiting for her to slap a post-it on so that they could move on – and be done with this whole day.

She didn’t look at him as she peeled the pink paper away from the stack. “Are you going to help me find props like Georgie asked, or are you just going to hover there like a fucking ghost?”

“Wouldn’t want you doing a segment on me,” he muttered. At that, she looked at him – with an entirely unimpressed expression. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Melanie.”

An eyebrow went up. “You? Sorry? And here I thought I dealt with the supernatural.”

“Melanie,” he tried.

“Jon,” she said, in a monotonous tone. She had turned her whole body to him now, and her arms were brought up against her chest. She looked him up down with a bitter hunger.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “About – about being an … arse.”

“I don’t like you, Jon.”

“I gathered that much.”

“ – and an apology isn’t going to change that,” she continued. “I can be civil, for Georgie’s sake, but I don’t want to be friends.”

“Civil works.”

She took a breath, and nodded in consideration. Another beat passed. “Let’s just get this over with, alright?”

“Alright.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With the help of a few warehouse workers, they managed to pack the crates of assorted props into the back of the van. Jon, however, was not the best help – and after he spent a painfully long time trying to shift a box of beakers, he was dismissed and told to wait in the passenger seat of the car.

A few minutes later, he felt the back doors slam closed, and heard Melanie approach the driver’s side. Tensions were still tight between the two, and if her slamming the door a little louder than necessary was due to that – Jon couldn’t say.

She slipped the car key home and twisted.

And nothing.

She twisted again. And then again. And again.

“Fuck,” she hissed, and then louder, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-ity, fucking shit!”

She slammed her hand down on the wheel, and let out a long groan. Jon didn’t say anything – she was irritable on the best of days; she would out right tear his head off if he spoke in that moment. She gave the key another twist, as if the secret was in the fifth attempt. After another expected nothing, she jumped out the car. The door closed behind her with a bang that made Jon flinch. He unbuckled his own belt, and climbed after her.

She had popped the hood open, and was staring intently at the maze of machinery before them.

“You aren’t secretly useful, and double as a mechanic, right?” she said, snapping her head towards him. He pulled his lips tight, and shook his head.

She sighed. “Fuck.”

“I’ll call AAA,” said Jon, pulling out his phone. Before he could begin to dial, Melanie had clapped a hand down on his arm. He looked up at her, with a perplexed expression.

“What - ”

“Do not call a fucking repair company,” she said in a growl. “Do not, Jon.”

He yanked his arm out of her hold, and furrowed his brows. “Why? Melanie, it’s - ” He gestured to the exposed innards of the car, and then gave a huff. “Are _you_ secretly a mechanic?”

“Of course I’m not, Jon.”

“Then why - ”

“Jon!”

“Oh my god,” Jon blurted. “It’s not insured, is it?”

“Shut up,” she hissed, her eyes going wide, and her jaw tightening. Jon blinked, and then gave an incredulous laugh.

“Does Georgie know?”

She expelled a long and harsh breath, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “No, Jon – she doesn’t, okay?”

“Melanie,” he said in disbelief.

She scowled at him, before moving forward, and placing her hands against the rim of the vehicle. She peered over it, her gaze flickering rapidly across the surface, looking for the invisible problem. Jon doubted that she knew any more than he did.

Jon’s phone burst to life in his hand.

From Martin: Did you get murdered in the warehouse?

From Jon: No, but I might get murdered on the side of a road. Our car broke down.

He looked back up at Melanie, who was tentatively poking one of the large metal … things? When she pulled her finger back, it was smeared with oil. She grimaced, and wiped it off on her jeans. Jon tried not to smirk.

His phone buzzed again, and then again – he was being called. Martin’s name flashed on his screen. He quickly accepted the call.

“Martin?” he answered, turning away from Melanie for some modicum of privacy.

“ _Hi, Jon!_ ” came Martin’s voice. Even distorted over tinny speakers it still sounded melodic, and made the edges of Jon’s mouth twitch upwards. “ _Where abouts are you?_ ”

“Oh?” sounded Jon. He looked around the street – he couldn’t see any street names, and the only marker for their location was the warehouse they had just left. “Uh – near a place called, uh …” he squinted over at the building. “Titan Props. Why?”

On Martin’s end, he could hear shuffling. It sounded like he was moving. “ _Okay! I can be there in – say, twenty minutes?_ ”

“Jon! What did I just fucking say?” exclaimed Melanie, as she suddenly lunged for his phone. He darted quickly to the side, just missing her swing.

“ _Jon?_ ” he heard Martin say through the speakers, as he dodged Melanie’s next assailed attempt. “ _Oh my god, are you actually getting murdered by the side of the road?_ ”

“It’s not the bloody AAA folk,” grunted Jon, as she caught hold of his wrist, and tried to wrestle his phone away. “Let go – Jesus, why are you so strong?”

With a triumphant ‘Aha!’ Melanie managed to free the phone from his hands. She quickly hung up on Martin, cutting off him off.

“Don’t do that again,” she warned, jabbing a finger towards him. “Do you have any idea how much trouble we could get into for this?” She threw a hand towards the van.

“I wasn’t calling a repair company!” he argued, pressing a hand against his temple. “It was my friend, Melanie – and he was offering to help before you hung up on him!”

Her terse expression faltered for a moment. “Malcom?”

“Martin.”

“Oh.” She pulled a face. “He doesn’t work for AAA, right?”

“No – he works with me, at a school.”

“Oh,” she said again. “Tell him thank you.”

Jon rolled his eyes, and held out his hand. “I might need my phone for that.”

She looked down at the device still in her hands, and turned it over, as if inspecting it, before tossing it back to him. He fumbled forward to catch it. There was a message alert on his screen:

From Martin: I’m gonna assume ur still alive

From Martin: Should be about 15 mins

From Jon: Thank you, Martin.

“He should be here in fifteen,” said Jon, relaying the message as he pocketed the phone. Melanie gave a curt nod in response, and then leant back against the car, her arms crossed across her chest. Jon faltered for a moment, before following. The cold metal of the bumper seeped through the fabric of his jeans, and he gave a shiver.

He looked out across the road – it was absolutely deserted. All it was missing was a stray tumbleweed.

The two sat in uncompanionable silence for the better part of twenty minutes, staring out at the dead road until a beat-up looking Volvo began to manifest along the horizon. It drew closer, and with it the sound of a clattering engine. It began to slow as it neared them, and Jon saw Martin pop his head through the window as it came to a stop.

“Hi!” He said. “Car trouble?”

Jon didn’t realise how much tension he had been carrying in his shoulders, but he noticed the heavy absence as it floated away at the sight of Martin. He felt his shoulders ease downwards, and his jaw slackened.

“Martin,” greeted Jon. Martin pulled himself out of the car, and slammed the door shut behind him. The vehicle rattled at the impact. “I didn’t know you drove.”

“I mean, I am in my thirties,” said Martin, his brow furrowing momentarily. “Do - do you not drive?”

“That’s not important.”

“Hi,” said Melanie, appearing behind Jon. She extended a hand, and Martin leaned forward to take it. He gave her a wide smile as he shook it, and Jon felt his chest flutter. “I’m Melanie.”

Realization dawned over Martin’s face, and he blinked. “Wait – like, Melanie King?”

“Yeah,” she said, slowly. “I didn’t realise you knew me.”

Martin quickly shook his head, and gave an awkward laugh. “No, I don’t – but I listen to your show!” He gestured to the van behind them, with the What the Ghost logo garishly splashed across it.

“You’re a fan?” exclaimed Melanie, her voice tinged with an overly amused tone. “Jon – you hear that? Your friend likes our trite show.”

Jon’s head fell into his hands. “Can we please not do this right now?”

Martin looked between the two of them, with a visible expression of discomfort. He shifted his weight between his feet, awkwardly. Jon offered him an apologetic grimace.

“Thank you for coming, Martin,” he said. “I really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” he replied quickly. He gestured towards the vacant van. “Should I – do you want me to take a look?”

“Oh – yes.”

Martin gave him a smile, and then began to make his way towards the van. Jon and Melanie floated over with him, and watched curiously as he took a look under the hood.

“Were there any sparks, or anything when you tried to start it?” He asked, looking up at Melanie. She shook her head.

“No, it just, uh – didn’t do anything,” she said, biting down on her lip. Jon didn’t think he had ever seen Melanie look nervous. She looked almost pleasant without the line of anger that always hovered over her brow. Jon guessed that that was just reserved for him, though.

Martin nodded, contemplatively. “I think the battery may just be dead.”

“Is that bad?”

“Well, I mean – it’s not great. But it’s easy to fix,” said Martin. He pointed towards his own car. “I’ll just connect my battery to yours, and then you guys should be fine.”

Jon nodded, and made a sound of agreement. Melanie slapped his arm. “Don’t act like you understand what he’s talking about.”

“I – that wasn’t what I was doing,” he shot back in a low whisper. Melanie raised her eyebrow.

Martin laughed. “It’s quite simple, actually. I, uh – I can show you, if you like?”

Jon was nodding before his brain had even had time to consider the task. Martin beamed wider, and Jon felt himself melt slightly. Melanie scoffed beside him.

“Are the keys in the car?” asked Martin, his question directed to Melanie.

She shook her head, and pulled out the set from her pocket with a jingle. “Do you need them?”

“Oh, not right now,” he said, shaking his head. “Just, ah – don’t try to start your car until I say.”

“Alright,” she said, slipping them back into her pocket with a shrug.

“I’m just going to move my car nearer, so we can connect the batteries,” he said to them, as he made his way back over to the antiqued Volvo. It looked like it was being held together with duct tape and crossed fingers – it didn’t look like it would be able to jump start their van. The engine coughed loudly as it started.

“Are you sure he isn’t AAA?” asked Melanie, shooting Jon an askance glare.

“What? Why? Do you not like him?” he stammered out, twisting his head to face her.

“No, I do,” she said. “That’s why I’m asking. I’m struggling to believe someone like him - ” she gestured to Martin “ – would hang out with someone like you. Sure you didn’t just pay some mechanic to pretend to be your friend, and fix my van?”

“I can guarantee you that’s not what’s happening here,” said Jon with a sigh.

He hated to admit it, but Melanie had hit a nerve with that. It was a question he found himself asking all too often: why did Martin want to spend time with him?

He looked to Martin, as he stepped out the car again; all soft curves and edges – metaphorically, and literally. Jon was hard, and sharp – he was the antithesis of Martin. So, whatever they had – this odd friendship they had developed, it shouldn’t work.

Martin caught his eye, and smiled. Jon smiled back.

But it did.

In his hands, Martin was carrying two sets of cables, with what looked to be oversized crocodile clips on the ends of them. He curved them into a loop, and draped them onto his shoulder as he popped the boot of his car open. He gestured for Jon to come over, and Jon, stumbling slightly, obliged.

“Okay,” began Martin. “These are jumper cables.” He slid the cables back into his hand. “We’re going to connect these to your dead battery, and then to my, uh – not dead one.” He faltered for a moment. “Uh, and then I’ll start my car, and ta-da. Power. Or, hopefully, anyway.”

Jon nodded along as he spoke. “Sounds easy enough.”

“It is!” said Martin. “Just, don’t let the cables touch once connected and neither of us should die.”

“What was that?”

“I said it is!”

Martin dumped the cables into Jon’s hand, and then began to peer into the hood of the van. He pointed towards a black box with a maze of wires coming off of it.

“So, this is the battery,” he said. “You see this nut with the red wire coming off it?” Jon nodded. “Cool – so that’s the positive, we just need to connect one of the cables to that.” He gestured for Jon to clip one of the grips onto the nut. Jon fumbled to get his hand round the clip, and he gave it a squeeze. Its metal maw opened up, and he tentatively clasped it around where Martin was pointing.

“Okay, now really make sure you don’t let the other end of that cable touch ah – well, anything.” He turned to Melanie, who was lingering outside their perimeter. “Melanie – do you want me to show you, too?”

She held up her hand, and shook her head. “No thank you – you said we might die, and I don’t want to take that chance away from Jon.”

“Oh,” faltered Martin, blinking. “Oh – Okay?”

“Thank you for that, Melanie,” groaned Jon. He looked up at Martin, and held up the opposite end of the cable. “What happens with this? Beside it not touching anything.”

“Oh! Yes, over here,” he said, taking the short step over towards his car. He pointed at a similar looking back box, with another tangle of wires attached to it. “So, can you see where that one might go?”

Jon blinked. “Martin, for the sake of my internal organs – I suggest you just point at it.”

Colour filled Martin’s cheeks, and he cleared his throat. “Right – uh, sorry. Just there.” He pointed towards a similar looking nut as before, and Jon attached the clip.

“Nice. So, now we’re going to take the other cable, and connect one side to the negative …” Jon raised his eyebrow, and the pink of Martin’s cheeks deepened further. He quickly pointed towards another nut on the box. “That one.”

He snapped the mouth of the clip over it, and then turned back towards the van. He felt he had an inkling of what the next step would be. Martin was right – this was easy.

He saw a second nut on the dead battery, which looked exactly the same as the negative one had on Martin’s. He moved in to clip the cable on.

“Ah! No – wait!” cried Martin, grabbing Jon’s hand, and halting his action. “Don’t do that!”

Jon furrowed his brow, and retracted the clip up towards him. “Why? That’s what we did on that last one.”

Martin squeezed his eyes shut for a second, and let out a heavy breath. “If you connect that clip to the negative of this battery.” He prodded said battery. “You will create a circuit, and your van will explode.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah - oh,” said Martin, with a shaky laugh. “You need to ground it.”

“Is Jon trying to blow up my van?” yelled Melanie from where she stood. Jon rolled his eyes.

“I might,” muttered Jon under his breath. Martin elbowed him in the ribs. “Ow.”

“No!” called Martin to Melanie. “Everything is fine.”

“How do I … ground it?” asked Jon, gesturing to the car with the end of the cable. Martin winced, and reached forward, wrapping his hands around Jon’s and taking the cable away from him. “Why –”

“Sorry, you were swinging around what is essentially a live wire,” he said, apologetically.

Jon didn’t argue, he was very much okay with resigning the task to Martin. He seemed to know what he was doing more, anyway.

“How do you know all this stuff?” asked Jon, as he watched Martin clip the cable onto a different section of the car. “No offense intended, but you didn’t strike me as much of a car guy.”

“Oh – I mean, have you seen my car?” Jon looked over to the fatigued looking vehicle, and he made a sound that suggested enough. Martin laughed. “I can hardly afford to have it repaired by a professional every other week. YouTube is a good enough teacher.”

Jon’s stomach twisted at the sentiment. He thought back to Martin’s flat, and him saying he couldn’t afford to replace the furniture, and his 25p charity cups, and the look of nausea on his face at the total in the pet store. ‘I don’t own anything expensive’ he had said, when telling Jon about the burglary.

“If you need money - ”

“No,” he said quickly, and firmly. “Thank you, but no.”

Jon nodded. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”

“None taken,” said Martin. “I just – it’s fine, don’t worry about it. Honestly.” He gave a soft smile to Jon, and then clapped his hands together. “Right – let’s see if this worked.”

Martin made his way over to his own car, and started the engine. It spluttered to life.

“We just need to let this run for a few minutes,” he informed them.

“Thank you, Martin,” said Melanie. “You’re a lifesaver, honestly.”

“Oh – you’re welcome,” He beamed. “I quite like -" he gestured to the entanglement of wires lolling out of the car, “this kind of stuff.” A beat passed. “So, what are you guys actually doing here? It is kind of the middle of nowhere.”

“Georgie and Melanie need props for a new show - set dressing and what not,” sighed Jon, gesturing towards the warehouse. “They’re starting a, uh – a YouTube channel.”

“Jon,” hissed Melanie. “That’s a secret!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” replied Jon, monotonously. He turned to Martin. “Martin, do you promise not to expose What the Ghost’s top-secret plan of starting a _YouTube_ channel?”

“Uh – yeah?”

“There you go,” said Jon, shooting Melanie a look. “There’s your NDA.”

She scowled at him, rolling her eyes as she did. Silence fell among the three, leaving the low rattle of the engine to fill to space. A few minutes passed, and then Martin began to make his way over to the driver seat of his car.

He called over to Melanie. “If you want to try and start your car, we’ll see if this worked.”

Melanie shot him a thumbs up, and boosted over towards the van. She hoped into the seat, and with a furrowed brow, turned the ignition. A splutter, then a cough – and then a gentle and consistent rattle. She gave a cheer, and Martin grinned.

“It worked!” she cried. She leant her head out of the window. “Martin – I could kiss you right now.”

“Oh.” Martin reddened. “Oh, that’s – that’s okay. You’re welcome!”

He killed his engine, and then began to dismantle the leads that tethered the cars together. With a slam, both boots closed.

“Jon,” came Melanie’s voice. “Get your lanky ass in the car – we need to be at the studio in -” She looked at her phone. “Ten minutes ago.”

Jon’s shoulders sagged, as he lumbered over to the passenger side of the van. He pulled the door opened, and then hesitated; he turned to Martin.

“Thank you,” he said. “That was – It was … thank you.”

Martin smiled, soft and warm. “Of course, Jon.” A moment of silence hung between them. “You should probably get in – Melanie looks like she wants to kill you.”

Jon spared a glance over to Melanie, who was wearing a painfully sour expression.

“Right,” said Jon with a laugh. “I’ll see you at work. Get home safe, Martin.”

“You too, Jon.”

He pulled the door closed with a click. Melanie gave him a look; not her usual, scowls and tight-lipped looks – this one was different, it was almost neutral.

“He’s cute,” she said.

“Shut up, Melanie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melanie and Jon are both bitches, and I love them so much.  
> Honestly, im sad that there isn't more Melanie in this fic I love writing her because in my version she just hates Jon so much and it's so fun to write  
> Also, had to find a way to shoe-horn props into this - as a propmaker, its a legal requirement. If you have ever gone to a props storage warehouse then you get it; skeleton on a surfboard, wearing a necklace of garlic, its a wild ol' time  
> Also, also! If I got the car mechanic stuff wrong I am sorry!! I watched so many youtube videos on it, but I am also void of braincells
> 
> Edit: I'm going to be taking a small hiatus between this chapter and the next, only a fortnight. We're getting close to the end, with what I have done already, and just want to make sure I have a coherent path to the end laid out. So next chapter will be on the 25th instead of the 17th!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not to sound rude,” said Mr Murray. “But do you not have a life outside of this place?”  
> Jon gave a dry and airy laugh. “It’s on the bucket list.”  
> Mr Murray huffed, and kicked the door open wider. “C’mon, let’s get you home. Not got a partner waiting for you, or nothing?”  
> “I’ve a cat,” offered Jon as he stood up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've run out of chapter titles folks
> 
> fuck hiatus, me and the homies hate hiatus  
> 'ello, 'ello, 'elloooo lovely people, how are we this week?  
> Hope you enjoy the new chapter xox

“Mr Sims?”

Jon looked up from his desk to see the raised hand of one of the A-level students. There weren’t many students in today – with exam leave less than a week away, the students tended to do their own thing; opting to either study in the library, using computers and other resources, or stay in the classroom and check in with Jon when needed. He quite liked it like this – just him and a handful of students. It was always quite peaceful, and far less stressful.

“Yes, Alice,” he said, leaning forward to better hear her. “Everything alright?”

“This is probably a stupid question, but I am full on blanking right now – what was Antony’s second name again?” she asked, drumming her pencil into the palm of her hand.

“Antony.”

“Yeah, him.”

“Antony is his second name,” said Jon. “Mark Antony.”

Beside Alice, her friend, Niamh, snorted. Alice nudged her, and quickly shot her a heatless glare. “Why does no one call him Mark?”

Jon paused for a moment, and furrowed his brow. “I – I’m not sure that there’s a clear reason – or not one I’m aware of, anyway. If I had to wager a guess, it could be due to Brutus and Antony both having the same first name. When it comes to theatre, that can become quite confusing. Or – or any literature, really.”

“Also Mark just doesn’t have the same dramatic flair,” piped in Niamh.

Jon huffed a laugh. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. Shakespeare definitely favoured flair.”

There was a knock at the door, and Martin’s head appeared behind it. He looked beautiful, his hair a mess of curls, and his eyes glistening brightly in the sun-lit classroom. “Hey, Jon – just looking for Emily, is she about?”

After Jon’s embarrassment the first time Martin had come round to pick up Emily for her biweekly counselling session, he always made a note to remember.

Jon smiled reflexively, and he shook his head. “She’s in the library right now.”

Martin nodded, and gave Jon a warm smile and a wave farewell. “Thanks, Jon – see you at lunch.”

“Of course,” replied Jon. “See you then.”

Jon watched the door close with a sappy smile across his face. He dropped his chin into his hands, in an attempt to disguise the look of affection.

“Are you and Mr Blackwood dating?” asked Niamh suddenly. Jon’s shoulders jumped up in surprise, and his head spun around to look at the student; his smile vanishing – replaced with a slacked jaw of shock.

“For fuck sake, Niamh,” whispered Alice. “You can’t just ask him that.”

“Uh, no – no, we’re not,” stammered out Jon, shaking his head. “That’s – what? Why – what made you think that?”

Niamh looked slightly sheepish, and she twisted her thumbs together. “Well, it’s just – you just seemed … are you _sure_?”

“I’m positive,” blinked Jon. “That doesn’t tend to be the sort of thing you forget.”

“I thought you lived together?” chimed in Phoebe. Jon made a garbled sound of confusion, as he turned his attention to her. His eyebrows knotted together.

“No – I don’t live with Mart – with Mr Blackwood,” he stated, pressing the pads of his index fingers against his temple. “Where – where did you even get that idea from?”

“Oh – uh, well, Lily said her parents saw you guys adopting a dog together,” said Phoebe. “Everyone just sort of, uh – assumed?”

“Aw, you guys got a dog?” cried Niamh, cupping her cheeks and grinning. “That’s so cute – what’s she called?”

“Lucy,” stated Jon plainly. “And no – we didn’t ‘get a dog together’, that’s absurd. I just went with him – as a friend. The dog is his, and his alone.”

“Do you have any photos?” asked Niamh, leaning forward on her desk. Alice swatted her arm playfully. “Aw, c’mon, sir.”

For some unknown reason to Jon, he was pulling his phone out, and swiping towards the gallery. His phone automatically saved sent photos – and it was those handful of photos that made up his gallery; he didn’t have much in his life he needed or wanted to take photos of. He tapped the photo of Lucy that Martin had sent him the other week, and stood up too fast to offer it towards Niamh. His vision bloomed slightly as he rose, and he felt his knees buckle under his weight slightly. He swayed gently, before stumbling forward to hand the phone over. She took it gleefully, and Alice leant over her shoulder to look at the photo. The two cooed over it, zooming in on the picture to get a better look. Phoebe, and the other two remaining students also got up to have a closer look. He couldn’t fully understand their fascination with a photo, but he felt an odd sense of pride as they complimented Lucy. Martin would probably be flattered.

“She’s very cute, sir,” said Niamh, handing him the phone back. He took it, and pocketed it with a nod.

“Thank you,” said Jon, unsure of why he was thanking her. “I’m sure Mart – Mr Blackwood will be happy to hear that.”

Niamh swatted the air. “We know you guys have first names, it’s chill.”

Jon reddened in embarrassment. “Yes, but – even so. Professionalism is important.”

“Is that why you let us fawn over your dog for five minutes?”

“Not my dog,” he reminded her. “And don’t you have an exam coming up? Your attention would be much better suited to studying for that, than hypothesising about my personal life.”

Niamh scrunched up her face. “Sorry, Mr Sims – I’m just going slightly crazy from textual analysis.” She jabbed the textbook in front of her for emphasis.

There were a few murmurs of agreement, and a number of nodding heads. Jon twisted his lips together, and thought for a moment. He spared a glance over to the clock behind him. “If you, uh – if you all want to pack up early for lunch, you are welcome to. There’s only fifteen minutes left, anyway.”

“Really?” said Niamh, her eyebrows shooting upwards. “That’s – cheers, sir.”

Students were already scrambling their textbooks and jotters into their open rucksacks, keen to take advantage of the offer.

“It’s really more for my sake, than yours,” he sighed. “I think if I learn about one more rumour, I might quit.”

Niamh stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She approached him with a curious smile. She held up her hands in prayer against her chin. “Last thing, I promise.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped. He sighed again, louder and heavier this time for dramatic effect. “What is it?”

“Were you in a band in uni?”

“Go to lunch.”

* * *

It was late – just about to turn eight. Jon was still slumped over his desk, going through the infinite stream of emails that seemed to loop on his screen, and the mountain of past papers to his left that were awaiting marking. The day had taken a sour turn after lunch – which he had taken with Martin, but had found himself unable to stomach any of his food, feeling queasy and faint. Martin had fluttered around him, jabbing him to eat something.

“You’re probably feeling faint because you haven’t eaten,” he had said. “C’mon, at least finish your sandwich.”

But the food had just tasted gummy in his mouth, and painfully dry. He hadn’t been sleeping great that week, feeling the stress of exam week weighing down on him. He had plenty experience with exam stress – both from taking the exams, and giving them. But it felt different this time. He desperately wanted to do right by his students, and was absolutely terrified that he would be the reason they failed. He trusted them – they were smart, some of them exceptionally so. But still, the anxiety niggled at the back of his head, and he was finding it increasingly harder to not allow it to consume him.

He gave a loud groan to the classroom, as he stretched his tired body out, feeling the bones all crack and slip into place. Above him, he could hear the low moan of the hoover whirring. He knew the cleaning staff would soon be knocking on his door, and asking him to head home. He knew them all by name now, thanks to his less than healthy work schedule and tendency to stay later than entirely necessary.

Ellie has two children, both of which attend Magnus Academy; one in year eleven and the other in year nine. Both of them act like they don’t know here, which she told Jon she didn’t mind, but it was evident that she did.

Mr Murray, who keeps his first name under lock and key, hides digestive biscuits underneath the sponges in his trolley. He’s offered them to Jon on numerous occasions, but he turned them down every time. The wrapper was always slightly wet, and Jon could never suss out the cause.

Catherine, who would sometimes chase him out of his classroom with a wet mop, was his favourite. She had that dry, sarcastic wit, that Jon always found himself cracking up with. She had zero tolerance for his highfaluting demeanour, and made sure to always knock him down a few pegs when they talked. She didn’t do it in a mean way, though. There was no malicious intent, it all came from humour.

Ten minutes later, as if on cue, he heard a knock at his door. It was Mr Murray on shift that day, and he gave Jon a tired look.

“I know, I know,” said Jon, killing his computer screen. He tossed the paper he was marking into his bag – he could finish it at home. He threw in a few others, for extra measure.

“Not to sound rude,” said Mr Murray. “But do you not have a life outside of this place?”

Jon gave a dry and airy laugh. “It’s on the bucket list.”

Mr Murray huffed, and kicked the door open wider. “C’mon, let’s get you home. Not got a partner waiting for you, or nothing?”

“I’ve a cat,” offered Jon as he stood up. Mr Murray split into two as Jon’s vision doubled; he swayed again, stumbling into his desk for support.

“You feelin’ alright?” asked Mr Murray, giving Jon a worried look.

Jon nodded, and squeezed his eyes shut. “Perfectly fine, just a bit tired.”

“All the more reason for you to head out,” reiterated Mr Murray.

Jon grumbled as he slipped his arms through his rucksack, and hoisted it up onto his back.

“Have a good night,” said Jon as he walked past the other man.

* * *

It was still light outside when he stepped out into the cool, evening air. Heavy clouds hung overhead, blocking out the remaining light from the setting sun. There was a hint of pink to the edges, a gentle reminder of warmth. The dying light haloed the grey, and black outlines danced across the horizon, silhouetted against the backdrop of a sunset. The street was almost quiet; a hum of a car in the distance and the dulcet birdsong.

Summer was coming, in that gentle tidal way it always did in Britain – gifting a few days of warmth, before retreating with a week of rain, before repeating the cycle again.

Jon’s vision swam again for a moment, the colours of street blurring into one another. He blinked quickly, his hand shooting out to find some kind of support. It fell through the air as he swayed, and he halted his movement, allowing the wave of weakness to pass.

The world felt hazy. Off kilter. Like someone had turned up the speed of the planet, and it was moving too quickly beneath Jon’s feet. He stumbled forward, tripping over an uneven paving stone. He let out a small exclaim as the ground grew closer, before catching himself with inelegant footwork.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and pressed the heel of his hand against them, trying to massage the watery vision away. He shook his head, as if trying to swat away the problem like bees. He continued to walk, it was almost instinct now; a left by the traffic lights, a right by the telephone wire with the adidas sneakers dangling off, and straight on after the busker with the electric violin – who only ever, and badly, played the same song.

Like a gaping maw, the entrance to the subway welcomes him in, the white tiled steps glistening like hungry teeth. He gave his routine shudder, as he took his first step.

His vision went black for a moment, as he felt his legs give out from underneath him. His vision bloomed back as the tiles grew closer, faster, hitting him with a sharp force that echoed through his body with a cry. His body crumpled in on itself, rag dolling down the cold, jagged steps of the station. He felt each step push his body away, guiding him towards the bottom with a fierce force. Each part of his body lit up in pain, until he glowed with agony.

Then it went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is from Glasgow, then you know the man on Buchanan street, with the electric violin who ONLY ever plays Despacito. I miss him so much, that man was the highlight of freshers week.  
> The only upside to exam season was that the teachers were as tired as you, so they were vulnerable to invasive questions which was great  
> Also - tonally consistent writing????? in my fic???? no thank you  
> I'm going to be changing my posting schedule to either Monday/Tuesday, so expect the next chapter on the 27th/28th???


	13. What if?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite what he had been told, Jon knew that love was not something you just fell into, headfirst and helpless. It was a choice; a crossroad you faced down, and a decision you made.  
> ‘To be, or not to be’ – to love him, or not to love him.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My posting schedule: hey, hey - you remember me right??  
> Me, posting two chapters in the same week: who?
> 
> Disclaimer: I have absolutely no clue how hospitals work! This chapter is based off of me watching a LOT of House MD as a 12 year old, and then last year when my dad kept getting hit by cars (he got it all out of his system, dw)
> 
> Anyway, hope you guys all enjoy! This chapter is one of my favourites xox

There’s a ‘what if’ that Jon goes to sometimes; a home, one he had made for himself over the years. It brings comfort the same way warm milk does, and it brings bitterness in the same swift motion – in the quick rot, the curdled stench of wrong. It was an art he had mastered: the ability to stop drinking the comfort, to always put the cup down just before the purification took over. He could stop, but he could never get rid of it – always finding himself unable to throw it out, to pour the rancid bile down the drain, rinse it away with metallic tasting water, and watch the white turn to clarity.

Those cups make up the home, the very infrastructure of the building rests upon stacked cups, each oozing this miasma of wrong, of roads not taken – of regret. Like incense, it fills the space; the smell is so ingrained in the walls, so imbued in its existence, that Jon doesn’t even remember what the absence smells like.

Homely, he thinks – it must be homely. What other word would you use to describe a home. But what does that mean - what is homely?

Is it the smell of his grandmother’s tea, always brewed so dark, as to create a russet mirror? Or is it the smell of damp that now lingers in his kitchen, brewing in that bucket like a cauldron? Is it that lingering, festering smell, that clings to his bedsheets when he can’t bring himself to leave them?

Is it the smell of a leant shirt, warm against his frame? Is it the smell of lilies, clutched tightly in a white knuckled grip? Is it the scent of orange blossom, pressed against him in a dark pub?

Martin is homely. That seems right – that fits.

In a house, on a hill, Martin lives in this what if with Jon. The cups, now bricks; made up of every unbroken stare, and lingering touch – all of which Jon stepped away from, but always wondering – what if?

It was a fantasy that Jon found himself frequenting more and more. A world of fiction where he answered that question each time, and landed on the conclusion – where he found what could have been; that tantalising and torturous phrase. The what could have been looms over his what if every day, its shadow casting over his reverie, constantly reminding him that he cannot live here forever. But he sees Martin, softened in the light of a fantasy, and thinks to himself;

_I think I could love him._

Despite what he had been told, Jon knew that love was not something you just fell into, headfirst and helpless. It was a choice; a crossroad you faced down, and a decision you made.

_‘To be, or not to be’ – to love him, or not to love him._

To love him would be so easy, the natural ebb and flow of his being leant towards loving him. How could Jon not love Martin?

It wasn’t an inevitability, but he wanted it to be.

If it was inevitable, then the choice wouldn’t be his. He could blame the guaranteed hurt on a cruel cosmic joke, and not on his own foolish decisions.

But he is a coward. And he is in pain.

He knew he was in pain, but it was distant, hidden behind a gossamer curtain of shock that numbed the wrong he knew was there. He took a breath, which felt simultaneously too heavy and too thin, as his lungs shrivelled and blossomed. He made eye contact with the harsh fluorescent lighting that plastered itself against a pockmarked, tiled ceiling.

The straight cut lines of the ceiling swirled before him, like he was viewing it underwater. He blinked a few times, readjusting to the motion of it. It felt like trying to piece together a jigsaw, when all the pieces came from different sets. His eyes wandered lazily about the room; a blue curtain was drawn around his perimeter, encasing him in his clinical tomb. Beside him, a monitor beeped a steady, ostinato melody that made Jon’s head hurt. There were other sounds beyond that; a miasma of footsteps against linoleum flooring, creaking wheels, and a television playing somewhere. None of it meant much to him.

He just wanted the beeping to stop.

His fingers twitched, against the white cotton weight atop of him. The fabric felt soft against his skin, and he clenched it tightly, just to see if he could. A band was wrapped around his wrist, the glossy white of it shone garishly against his dark and ashen skin, and the sharp edges of the plastic identification pressed against his wrist as he moved it. He looked to his other hand, but garish white bandages stared back. It felt too heavy to lift under the weight of the cast that now encased it. Further up, the fang of a needle bit into his crook of his elbow, the body of the tube snaking up and above him, where he couldn’t find the energy to look. He knew what an IV drip looked like. It wouldn’t look any different attached to him.

Memories of white hit him with the same force as they had on those steps. Flashing images of tiles growing larger before him, played on like he was looking through a phenakistoscope, and just kept torturously twisting. He squeezed his eyes shut, and willed the thought to pass.

“Jon?”

His eyes shot open. Georgie. Her mess of curls sat pinned atop her head, and she stood drenched in an ill-fitting jumper. Worry carved its lines into her face, like vines taking an old house.

“Jon,” she repeated, her shoulders sinking in relief as she broke the threshold of the room. “God, Jon, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Mm .… sorry,” he said, his voice cracking, and slurring gently at the edges. He tried to pull himself up, but his one good arm gave out under his weight, and he fell back against the bed with a soft thud. His vision bloomed with the effort, and the room swam momentarily. Georgie rushed over.

“Just – stay still, Jon. Jesus.” She placed a hand against his bony shoulder, pinning him down. She would hardly have to put any effort into restraining him; even on a good day. 

“God,” she continued, giving a shaky laugh, “for someone who’s always as tired as you are, you’d think you would take the chance to just lie down when given it.”

She tried to smile, but it looked like pulling teeth, and her eyes glistened with emotion. Jon felt guilt wrap its way around his chest. He didn’t like being the reason she looked like that.

“How are you feeling?” Her voice sounded strained, and a few octaves too high. “The doctors said it was a pretty bad fall.”

“I’m fine,” he lied. “I’m – _mmh_ , honestly, you didn’t need to come.”

“Like hell I did, Jon,” she snapped. “Are you kidding me?”

He swallowed. He looked at her, and her form shimmered in distortion. He squeezed his eyes shut. “M’ sorry.”

She sighed, and her head fell for a moment. “No, god – Jon. Don’t be sorry, I just – I’m just glad you’re okay, or breathing anyway.”

“Still breathing,” he reassured.

She gave his hand a squeeze, and he attempted to offer a smile. His right cheek burned as he moved it, and his hand went up reflexively to it. White gauze met his fingers where once he met skin, and he pressed the pads of his fingers gently against the dressing. Pain sounded again, and he winced, dropping his hand back to his side. The lines on Georgie’s face deepened, and she gave his hand another squeeze.

“Stitches,” she explained. “You kind of ate shit.”

She gave another weak laugh at her attempt to bring levity to the situation. Jon gave her a lopsided smile, leaning away from the injury.

“That’s, mmh – that’s not, uh – not great,” he fumbled. His eyes fell closed for a moment, suddenly feeling far too heavy.

“No,” agreed Georgie. “Definitely not great.”

In the distance, the sound of frantic footsteps drew closer, playing a song of anxiety against the floor. The blue curtain drew back wider, and Martin was standing there, his face pale and his breaths ragged. If Georgie had looked rough upon entry, it was nothing on how Martin looked.

“M - Martin?” Jon blinked.

“Georgie called me,” he said, stumbling into the room. Martin wasted no time in getting to Jon’s side, his hands clasping at the railings that encased his bed, with a white knuckled grip.

Closer up, Jon could see the fear that took control of his features, his lips tight and his brow low.

“I called him after the hospital called me,” she supplied, slipping her hand away from his, and taking a small step backwards.

“Are – are you alright? No, of course you’re not – look at you. Jesus, Jon,” Martin rushed out. His hand broke loose from his tether on the bed, and he pulled it across his face.

“Martin.”

“What have the doctors said? Have you spoken to them? Is there a doctor – should I get a doctor?” continued Martin, lost in his own words. “How are you feeling? Does it hurt? Of course it hurts, what am I saying? Fuck.”

“Martin.”

Martin met his gaze, with wide and fearful eyes, his mouth still hanging open as he readied himself to continue rambling.

“I’m fine, Martin,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I’m alright … ‘m alright.”

Martin nodded slowly, and Jon watched the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Jon closed his eyes, and sank deeper into the bed below him.

“You should – mmh, go home,” he said. “M’ alright.”

He heard a scoff from Georgie’s side, and felt Martin’s weight shift beside him. He kept his eyes shut. He heard them continue to speak, most likely chastising him, but it faded away against the slow beeping that lured Jon out of consciousness.

When he awoke, it was to the sound of movement.

Through half lidded, half drugged eyes, he could see a dark-skinned man in blue scrubs standing beside him. By the sounds of it, he was fiddling with the machine beside his bed. Jon cleared his throat.

“Ah, you’re awake,” said the man. His voice was deep, and rich, and a gentle change from the incessant thudding is his ears. “I’m nurse Oliver Banks - how are you feeling, Jon?”

Jon pressed the heel of his hands against his eyes, and tried to focus the swirling streams of light that circled him. The numb pain that he had felt earlier had begun to fade, and Jon could now feel an intense throbbing in his chest. His hand fell against his ribcage and he grimaced, sucking in air sharply as weight pressed against the tenderness.

“Could you tell me what your pain is on a scale of one to ten? Ten being unbearable, and one being unnoticeable.” Oliver was now holding a clipboard in his hands, and Jon heard the flutters of paper as he flicked through them.

“One,” said Jon, through gritted teeth. Oliver raised an eyebrow.

“I’m just going to do a small check-up,” he said. “Is that okay with you?”

Jon gave a nod in response.

Oliver moved round his bed clockwise. A torch flickered in his eyes, and Oliver hummed, noting something down on the clipboard; he checked the needle in his arm, and fiddled quietly with the valve that connected it to the drip; and then he pulled back the sheet that covered him. He gestured to Jon that he was going to lift up his shirt, and waited for Jon to confirm that it was okay. It was out of politeness, but not necessity.

He peeled the shirt upwards, bunching the fabric up by Jon’s clavicle. An explosion of colour splashed across his torso, feathered out by web-like veins that stretched outwards like gnarled fingers.

The topography of swollen welts drew lines across his ribs, speckled with deep red splatters of broken blood vessels. Oliver placed his hands gently against his skin, they were cold and somewhat soothing against the swelling. Then he pressed down, and Jon felt bile rise at the back of his throat.

“Can you tell me if that hurts, Jon?” he said, moving his hands around his torso and applying pressure throughout.

Jon took a breath, and it was like he could see the sparks of pain flashing across his skin. A garbled noise of pain sounded from his throat. That was enough of a reply for Oliver, as he pulled back his hands, and nodded. He shifted Jon’s shirt back down, covering the purple that transformed his skin.

“I’m going to ask you a series of questions now,” said Oliver. “You’ve got a pretty nasty concussion – I just want to check that everything is in order.”

“Mmh,” said Jon, shutting his eyes for a short moment of peace against the harsh lighting. When he opened them again, Oliver had the clipboard in his hand again.

“What is your name?”

“Jonathon Sims.”

“Who is our prime minister?”

He just sighed wearily.

Oliver made a small noise of amusement. “How old are you?”

“Thirty – and don’t say ‘really’- mmh, please.”

“What city do you live in?”

“London.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Jon squinted. “Four?”

“Perfect.” He placed the clipboard back against the wall. “Well, you’re going to live.” Jon gave an unenthusiastic cheer. “We’re going to keep you here overnight, however, just to keep an eye on you. You should be discharged in the morning – do you have someone who can take you home?”

Jon nodded weakly. “Yes – yes, I do.”

“Good,” said Oliver with a note of finality. “I’m going to give you another dosage of painkillers, and I’m going to hope you take them.”

He produced a small, white paper cup – a thimble with two pink pills nestled inside. Jon didn’t need telling twice, and he knocked them back, the motion inducing a small complaining cry from his body. Oliver took the cup from his hand, and binned it. There was the rustle of the curtain being drawn back, and then the sheepish face of Martin came into view.

“Oh,” came his voice. “I’m sorry – I didn’t realise … ah, I’ll just come back in a moment.”

“Martin?” said Jon, furrowing his brow, and halting Martin from his exit. “I thought ... You’re still here?”

“Oh,” said Martin, his cheeks flushing. “No – I, well, I thought you would need something to eat – so I brought you some food, and uh, whatnot.” He held up a plastic Marks and Spencer’s bag.

“Oh,” said Jon, feeling warmth flow through him. “Thank you, Martin.”

“Are you in the middle of - ?” He gestured vaguely between him and Oliver. “Should I – ?” he gestured behind him.

“No, no – I was just finishing up,” said Oliver. He extended his hand towards Martin, who fumbled forward to meet it. “I’m Nurse Oliver Banks – are you …?”

“Friend!” said Martin quickly. “I’m, uh – I’m Martin. Jon’s friend.”

Oliver nodded, and gave them both a smile. “I’ll be on call if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” said Jon.

Oliver threw up a wave, and headed off into the riptide of the hallway rush. Martin faltered for a moment, looking around the room. A blue plastic chair was pressed against the wall, and he pulled it over with him to Jon’s bed. He fell into it, dropping the plastic bag by his feet, where it slumped with a crinkle. He dived into it, as he began to pull out the assortment of his shopping.

“I know you don’t eat meat – so it was very slim pickings; I got cheese. I know it’s a bit boring, but it was either that or cheese and onion, or egg salad – but they both stink, and I didn’t know if that would make you feel nauseous or anything. I got crackers as well,” He continued. “Just in case you couldn’t stomach a sandwich. Can’t go wrong with crackers.” He gave a small laugh. “I also got you one of those vitamin smoothies that are meant to be good for you… I mean, obviously it won’t help with broken limbs, but, ah – I don’t know. Can’t hurt, can it?”

The bedside table beside Jon was rapidly filling up with what looked to be the entire stock of the shop. Two newspapers and a yellow book topped off the pile.

“I got you the Guardian and the Daily Mail,” he continued. “I know the Daily Mail is a bit, uh – iffy? But their puzzle section is pretty good. I got you this crossword book, though, if you don’t want to bother with newspapers. Do you like crosswords? I kind of just assumed you did. Heh, English teacher and all!” He paused for breath. “Should I have gotten sudoku? I know they have it in the papers, but would you have preferred a sudoku book?”

“Martin,” said Jon fondly, taking the bright yellow book of the table, simply titled ‘Crosswords’ off the table. He thumbed through it. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Martin paused for a moment. “I know. I – I just wanted to do something.”

Jon gave a small smile, careful not to irritate the wound on his cheek. “Thank you, Martin. This is…”

He didn’t fully know how to express the words, his thoughts were filled with fog and grasping for coherency felt futile. Martin understood, though, and he smiled. With all reason subdued by both pain and painkillers, Jon extended his hand towards Martin.

Martin blinked at the offered hand, a moment passed, and then he raised his own to take Jon’s.

Jon wrapped his fingers around Martin’s and gave it a small squeeze with the energy he had. Martin’s hand was warm in his, and was clammy with anxiety; but it didn’t feel unpleasant. It felt soft and gentle, yet solid. It tethered Jon’s watery vision to the sight of Martin before him; with his mess of curls, and worried eyes, and kind, lopsided smile.

“How are you feeling?” asked Martin, his voice softer than before.

“I’ve been better.”

Martin gave a whispered laugh, neither mirthful nor mournful. Just acknowledgment. He ran his thumb over Jon’s hand, sending a stream of warmth up his arm. He wondered how it would feel without the numb shell the drugs provided.

Slowly, Jon peeled his torso up from the bed. Pain cracking through the shell as his body begged him to stay put. Martin’s other hand jumped up, and hovered above Jon’s shoulder, as if readying himself to ease him back down.

Jon waved him off. “‘M alright.”

His tired eyes met Martin’s anxious ones. Under the light, his skin was washed out, his eyes dull, the sparkling green muted to moss. He looked tired, and he looked beautiful.

“Thank you for staying.”

“Of course, Jon.”

Martin looked at him with a quiet ferocity, like he was trying to convey to Jon some silent words that he didn’t dare sound. Jon heard them though; he heard them in the quiet breaths that he drew, and the flicker of his gaze across Jon’s face.

It would be so easy to lean in, to place his hands against Martin’s face and do what he was terrified to do. It would be one quick motion, one wall to breach and then he would know – know what his thoughts had dreamt about.

His hand was still in Martins, a soft weight, a grounding pressure. His thumb traced the length of Martin’s fingers, feeing the incline of his knuckles, as they sloped downwards to the ravine of his fingertips. Affection had never come easy to Jon - he had never received much, and thus felt lost when gifting it.

Was he doing it wrong?

Martin swallowed, and his gaze fell down towards their clasped embrace. His shoulders rose and fell in deliberate motion, like the ocean lapping against rocks, crashing in and out of itself. If Jon had known Martin a little less, he might not have noticed the way his breath had quickened.

But he knew Martin.

His hands stopped, and he felt his chest freeze in worry. He had done it wrong; somehow, he knew he had messed it up. Ruined whatever this silent agreement was between them.

But then Martin squeezed his hand again, and Jon’s chest thawed into golden warmth. An airy laugh escaped his lips, broken by the roughness and fatigue of his voice. Martin’s lips cracked into a smile, a real, genuine, and beautiful smile. There was a warmth and tenderness in his eyes that bloomed as he met Jon’s stare.

And then he knew.

Without a trace of doubt in his mind, Jon knew that he loved Martin. There was no hurt that could come, no more what if’s that he would play over in his mind – there was nothing that could quell the feeling that now spread across his body. It was like the sounding of bells, the echo reverberating through his body, singing through his veins and sending vibrations across his skin.

Yet, it didn’t feel like a grand revelation, more so like opening to door to what he always knew was there. To love without fear - it felt melodic. That rot he had felt, it decayed into the earth and bloomed into something wonderful, something that unfurled into beauty.

“Martin, I – ”

Then his throat tightened, and the beating of his chest turned to stone. There was no dosage of painkillers that could numb the waves of ice that now flowed through his veins, washing over the warm glow, and killing it.

He was still a coward.

“Yeah?” said Martin, expectantly.

He swallowed, and gestured to the yellow book. “I like crosswords. Thank you.”

Martin laughed. “That’s – that’s good, I’m glad.”

Jon nodded, and retreated his hand from Martins. He pressed the palms of his hands together, in a silent prayer, and then split them against his face, as he let out a long sigh.

“You should get some rest, Jon,” said Martin.

Jon dropped his hands into his lap, and gave a hum of agreement. “Mmh, maybe.”

“Rest,” he said, firmer this time.

“Maybe,” echoed Jon, but his eyes were already fluttering closed, as he fell back against the bed. The last thing he remembered before slipping out of consciousness was Martin squeezing his hand.

And that he loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, lads, lads, lads - we're getting near the end (I have the next three chapters done, and about to start on the last .... i'm going to miss writing this fic so much)  
> Originally, Jon got hit by a car, and I wrote like the next two chapters based on broom broom ow - so! If the word car pops up, I meant 'fell down stairs'  
> thank you for coming to my ted talk


	14. The entire works of E.E Cummings, and CO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are very welcome, Jon,” he said, looking far too pleased with himself. “There are some good ones in there, that I’m sure even the biggest poetry sceptic would enjoy.”  
> “I’m not a sceptic,” he argued. “I just – it’s just a very convoluted way of getting to the point, you know? Just – just say what you mean, enough with the dancing around.”  
> “I’m not going to argue with you,” said Martin. “Just know that you are wrong.”  
> “Sounds like an argument.”  
> “Nope,” he smiled. “Merely stating facts.”  
> “That fact that I’m wrong?”  
> “So you agree?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

He was discharged the next day, with two broken ribs, a broken wrist, and a rather severe concussion – that was, as said to Georgie, to be kept a close eye on. He was given an assortment of blood thinners, and painkillers – and was heavily warned against aspirin, unless he was in the mood for a brain haemorrhage.

He wasn’t.

They splurged on a taxi – against Jon’s pleas.

“The tube is fine!” he had insisted. “I have an oyster card.”

Giving him a very tired look, Georgie had said, “Jon, I swear to god if you don’t get in the bloody taxi, I will break another two of your ribs.”

Needless to say, he had gotten in.

London swam by him, blurred by motion, and the sweet numbness that made everything feel, and look, softer. Buildings, with familiar silhouettes, blurred at the edges into an unrecognisable swarm of colour. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window. It rattled against him, as cobblestones rolled underneath. Each jolt sent a ripple of pain through him. He squeeze his eyes closed, gritted his teeth, and waited the ride out.

Georgie helped him out of the taxi, with one arm gingerly pressed against his back, and his good arm over her neck. It was awkward, and filled with numerous apologies from both of them – but they got him out, and in the flat, and into his bed.

His bed somehow felt too soft and too hard; leaving him to feel like a badly casted Goldilocks. As much as he moved, twisted, and wrestled himself into a position he could pretend was comfortable, it slowly became apparent to him that pain would take the forefront, and comfort the back seat. Even if he couldn’t feel the full extent of his injuries, he knew it was there, hidden behind cotton skin, and honeyed veins.

The Admiral, like an attentive nurse, wandered curiously over his broken form, as he lay in the bed. He gingerly placed a paw atop of Jon’s torso, testing the waters. A wince scared him away, and he padded backwards, before curling up aside Jon’s feet.

He slipped in and out of consciousness that day, waking to check-ups from Georgie, a bite of a meal, and the buzz of a phone reminding him to take his medication. At one point, he had put a documentary on – something with David Attenborough’s voice. He had barely made it through the opening credits before he fell asleep again. When he awoke, his screen showed him the carnage of a hunt, as visions of viscera played before him. Fangs tore into blood red meat, and black and white stripes turned crimson. He hit the space bar, and the image froze. It was a particularly gruesome frame, and Jon wrinkled his nose up, before shutting the lid of his laptop.

He shuffled out from under his duvet, and the felt the cold stickiness of the flooring press into his clammy feet. His hand went to his chest as he walked, as if the pressure of his hand would contain the ripples of pain that flowed through him.

Georgie looked up from the kitchen table as he entered the room. She jumped to her feet automatically, and rushed forward to him. He waved her off before she could touch him – he didn’t need help standing, and didn’t want the offer.

“You should be in bed,” she said. He grumbled, and shook his head. “Jon.”

“The doctor said I should walk.” He rolled his shoulders back, feeling and hearing his bones click back into place. He gave a small shudder. “You don’t need to fuss over me, Georgie.”

She sighed. “Can’t really help it, Jon.”

Jon huffed, causing sparks of pain to flicker through him. He visibly grimaced. At that, Georgie rolled her eyes, eyes turning white in the motion. She gestured to the dining room chair. “If you’re going to be out of bed – then sit. That nice nurse man said I needed to change your dressings, seeing as you’re – ” She gestured to the blue sling holding his left arm up. “ – somewhat out of commission.”

“I – I can still _do things_ ,” he argued back, raising a pointed eyebrow.

“Oh, my bad – do you _want_ to clean and dress your bloody face wound?”

“Not really,” he mumbled. “It’s just the principle.”

“Sit.”

He did as asked. Georgie pulled out a bundle of white and blue paper packages, and brought one over to the table, alongside a wrapped alcoholic wipe. He readied himself for the sting it promised.

Georgie tried to be careful, as she peeled away the dressing - but the grip Jon was squeezing into his leg suggested otherwise. He bit down on his cheek to keep the small whimpers of pain that clawed at his lips in. He bit down harder as the wipe stung his skin.

“How does it look?”

“How does what look?”

“How does - ?” he sighed. “The wound, Georgie – the wound you’re dressing.”

“I would ask if that fall knocked all your manners out, but you’ve always been an arse,” she murmured, raising an eyebrow at him. He rolled his eyes.

“Georgie.”

Georgie tore open one of the paper envelopes, and pulled out the clean, white gauze. “It – uh, it looks like a cut, Jon. A bad cut. It’s not super gross or anything. Might scar?”

Jon groaned.

“Scars are sexy!” she exclaimed. “Bet Martin likes scars…”

“Georgie!”

“Leave off, Jon,” she teased, as she gently placed the new dressing against his cheek. She handed him the medical tape, and he tore a strip off for her. “You should’ve heard him on the phone yesterday – the man was a mess.”

“That’s not funny,” he muttered.

“Hey - I was a mess, too,” she argued. “I’m allowed to call out other messes. You really scared me, Jon.”

He shrunk slightly where he sat. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop with the apologies,” she said firmly. “It’s a skill – honestly. Man goes to hospital, manages to make himself the villain.”

“That’s not …” he faded off, and then sighed. She laughed, and patted him on the shoulder, before crumpling up the paper waste, and tossing it neatly into the bin. A small, and self-satisfied smirk crossed her lips briefly.

“How do you feel about pizza tonight?” she asked, turning to him. “I could go pick something up from that nice Italian place on George street, or the one on Kings Road? Sit on the couch, watch a movie – it’ll be like old times.”

Jon hummed in contemplation. “I’m – I’m not all that hungry, but that could be quite nice.”

She put her hand on her heart. “I guarantee you that I will eat your leftovers.”

Jon smirked. “I don’t doubt that.”

With a flourish, and a wink, Georgie scooped up her keys, and her bag. “Perfect! I’ll be back in, hm – say half an hour?”

She pressed a kiss to the top of Jon’s head, before pushing away from him and bounding towards the door, leaving Jon alone in the flat. The Admiral emerged into the living room at the sound of the door closing, intrigued to see the source of the noise. He padded over to Jon, pressing his fur against his exposed ankles. Jon graced him a few scritches behind the ear, before a knock sounded at the door – Georgie must’ve forgotten something. He slowly pulled himself up to his feet, and hobbled over to the door, pulling it open.

Melanie was standing before him, her hand raised in a fist, preparing to knock again against the door that was now not there.

“Melanie?” blurted Jon, obvious surprise on his face at the sight of the woman.

Quickly, she dropped her hand to her side, with a slight sheepish nature to it. “Jon.”

Jon looked behind him, and behind her, as if searching for the reason for her visit. “Georgie isn’t here right now.”

She nodded. “I know – I’m, ah, well – I’m actually here for you, Jon.”

“Me?”

She swallowed, presumably an automated insult. The tone still carried the hint of one, though. “Yes, Jon – you.”

“Why?” asked Jon slowly, the suspicion overtly apparent in his tone. His hand was still resting on the door handle, and he tightened his hold on it – in case of any sudden moves on Melanie’s part. In actuality, he knew Melanie would never attempt to cause him harm, but enough threats had been offered that his senses were always slightly heightened around her.

“I brought you this,” she said, pressing a small white tub forward. Jon reached forward and took it. “It’s, uh – it’s for the bruising. Georgie said you looked a bit like a battered peach.”

Jon hummed. “That’s one way to describe it.” He looked over the tub; there were no labels on it. “What is this?”

“It’s – ah, it doesn’t matter,” she said, with a small noticeable huff. “Just – just trust me, it works. Don’t give me that look, I’m not trying to kill you.”

Jon smoothed out his expression with a small smile. “Well, thank you, Melanie. That’s – I appreciate it.”

“Right,” she said.

A moment of terse silence passed between them. After another beat passed, Jon opened the door wider. “Are you, uh, wanting to come in? Georgie should be home soon, if you want to wait.”

Melanie ran her bottom lip through her teeth, picking at a piece of dry skin that flaked upwards. She looked down momentarily, before meeting his eyes with a slightly awkward stare. “I actually, uh – God. I need your advice on – on something.”

“Mine?”

“No, the fucking Admirals – yes, Jon, yours!” She snapped, throwing a hand up. She shook her head, and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. “Sorry – habit.”

Jon blinked. In all his years of knowing Melanie, she had never once come to him for anything – let alone advice. Hell, she hardly came to him for conversation.

“This was stupid,” she muttered, after Jon continued to stand there and sway like a baffled mannequin. “Forget I said anything.”

She took a step backwards, and made to turn away, before Jon came to, and called out after her. “Wait – Melanie.”

She stopped, and waited for him to continue. Her usual expression of bored and annoyed returned. It was funny; Jon found the look oddly comforting – familiar, anyway.

“What – what is it about, exactly?”

They were sat at the kitchen table, two mugs of tea steaming between them. Melanie was drumming her fingers against the wooden surface, her eyes flittering about the room, evident of wanting to look anywhere but Jon’s expectant stare.

She moved her fingers away from the table, and wrapped them around the mug in front of her. Her stare focused on the rising steam as she spoke, “It’s, uh – it’s about Georgie.”

“Oh,” sounded Jon, looping his own hand through the handle of his cup. “Is, uh - is everything okay?”

“Can I trust you to keep a secret?” She looked up at him with that, her stare noticeably pleading and vulnerable underneath her stony exterior. 

Jon nodded weakly. “Yeah – yes, uh, yes. You can.”

She swallowed, then burrowed her head into her hands, and muffled something unintelligible.

Jon leant forward. “Sorry?”

“I – ” Her words turned to mush against her skin.

“Melanie.”

“I – god, I like her,” she admitted, shooting her head upwards, and running both hands through her cropped hair. Jon blinked, and then laughed. It hurt, but he couldn’t help it. Her eyebrows knotted together, and her lips drew into a fierce line. “Jon – what the fuck?”

Still laughing, Jon spoke, “I’m sorry, honestly – I’m not laughing at you. It’s just – you came to _me_ for relationship advice? I’m not sure who exactly you’ve been speaking to, but I’m not well known for my – my relationship prowess.”

“You dated her!”

“I was nineteen, and - and in a band – that was all it took at that age!”

She groaned. “Jon, you have to believe me when I say – I am only here because I am desperate.”

“I would only assume,” said Jon, leaning back in his chair. He tried to dial down his smug tone, but the look on Melanie’s face suggested he had failed. “Look,” he said, speaking slowly. “Without, uh – without breaching anyone’s privacy, or trust, I think you should just tell her. I’m, uh, confident that she would respond positively.”

“Why do you talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“ _Respond positively_ ,” she echoed, in an overly accented version of Jon’s voice.

“You’re aware that I _am_ trying to help you here,” he reminded her. “And – and I do not sound like that.”

She shrugged, and scrunched up her face. “I mean – it wasn’t a bad impression.”

“It – ” He sighed. “Just tell her, Melanie. There isn’t really a work around when it comes to – to feelings. You just have to just – just say it.”

She snorted. “Easier in theory, though.” She gave him a pointed look. “Isn’t it?”

Jon swallowed, and broke eye contact, looking down at the mirrored surface of his tea. “This – this isn’t about, uh – this is about you, and Georgie.”

“Are you going to tell him?” asked Melanie, running her finger over the rim of her mug. “There is no, uh – workaround, after all.”

“How – how do you - ?”

“Georgie,” supplied Melanie. “She’s very invested in it.”

Jon let out an amused exhale, and nodded. “Should’ve guessed.”

“For what it’s worth,” began Melanie, “and from what I saw, when I met him … the boys smitten, Jon. Can’t say I fully understand why.” She gestured to him with that. Jon shuffled where he sat, self-consciously. “But I refuse to believe you haven’t noticed how he looks at you - refuse to believe you're that thick, anyway.”

Jon felt his cheeks warm, and he quickly took a sip of his tea in an effort to disguise the blush. Melanie smiled, not in her usual teeth baring smile, but an almost kind looking smile. She was quite pretty when she smiled like that.

Jon would be lying if he said he was oblivious to the way Martin looked at him. The way his eyes crinkled softly when they met Jon’s, and the soft curve of his smile that always graced his lips when they talked. And then there was that look he had given Jon in the hospital, the look that had caused Jon’s whole being to bloom into realisation that he loved him.

But it was bias. It was Jon’s bias, and hopes that he was placing on those looks – desperately searching for a hidden meaning, one that would give him the answer he desperately wanted.

Jon cleared his throat. “Yes, uh, well – we’re talking about you and Georgie, so, uh – let’s talk about that.”

As if on cue, the sound of a key in a lock sounded, and soon the warm voice of Georgie was calling out into the flat. Melanie’s cheeks warmed at the sound, and she gave Jon a wide-eyed stare and put one finger to her lips, as a reminder to his promise.

“Hey, Jon – Oh, Melanie, hey,” said Georgie, as she entered the living room, holding two brown pizza boxes in her arms. She rearranged them both over onto one arm, so as to gesture between him and Melanie. “Are you two – and, correct me if I’m wrong – but are you two sitting down, and having a civil discussion?”

Jon looked at Melanie, and she looked to him, and then the two nodded in tandem.

Georgie put her hands on her hips. “Huh, pigs really do fly.”

“Melanie just came round to give me some, uh, some cream,” said Jon.

“Cream?”

“For his bruising,” said Melanie, loosely pointing to Jon’s bruised, but hidden, torso.

“Yes,” finished Jon. “For – for that.”

“You came around just to give Jon cream?” repeated Georgie, walking over to place the pizza on the table. She looked to Melanie. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Melanie. “Just – I don’t know, wanted to help, I guess.”

Jon hid a smirk behind his hand, Melanie shot him a subtle glare.

“Well,” said Georgie, “seeing as you’re here – want to stay for dinner? Me and Jon were going to watch a movie, if you want to join us.”

“Yeah,” smiled Melanie. “That sounds nice.”

Jon looked up to Georgie, who was smiling back at Melanie. Jon knew that look all too well – it was one she had worn a lot when they had been together; It was utter fondness. He knew that Georgie was absolutely taken with the other woman; if the number of times he had listened to her talk about Melanie was anything to go off. But, still, he had never seen Georgie look at her quite like that. Jon suddenly felt like he was intruding.

“I’m actually feeling quite tired,” said Jon quickly. “I think I’m just going to head back to bed.”

“Oh?” said Georgie, turning her head to look at him.

“Yes, apologies – but, uh, you and Melanie should – should still do all of that,” said Jon. “Together.”

“Are you sure, Jon?” asked Georgie, a look of suspicion on her face. “She won’t try to kill you – promise.”

“Well,” sang Melanie, jokingly. Georgie huffed a laugh.

“No, no – really, I’m exhausted,” said Jon, using to table to help bring himself to his feet. “You two have fun, though.”

Georgie placed a hand on his arm as he rose, offering support. She gave him a warm smile. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

He nodded, then spared a glance towards Melanie. She gave him a small smile, then mouthed the words ‘thank you’. He replied with a small smile of his own.

In an odd way, Jon quite liked Melanie. Familiarity turns to fondness.

* * *

It was the next day, when a knock sounded at his bedroom door.

His sleep had been light, in and out like the tide; so he came to consciousness easily at the sound. Light creeped into his room, from the ajar door, and the fluttering of the curtains. Georgie had left his window open, muttering about the benefits of fresh air and the importance of ventilation. Which was a polite way of saying that his room smelt like musty disease. Which, to be fair, it did.

“Georgie?” he called out to the knock. The handle twisted open, and the light from the hallway spilled across him. Without his glasses, the figure was blurry – but Jon knew the silhouette well; Martin was standing there, his rucksack slung off one shoulder, and his hand placed gently against the door.

It was almost embarrassing how quickly his lips tilted upwards at the sight, and the feeling of warmth that spread through him; like slipping into a hot bath after a long day. “Martin, you’re – hi.”

Martin smiled. “Hey, Jon. Sorry, did I wake you? Georgie said you’d be up.”

“No, no,” lied Jon. He shifted himself upwards, so that he was sitting upright.

“How are you feeling?” asked Martin, stepping into the room, and letting the door close with a soft click behind him.

Jon brushed a hand across his face, wiping away some of the fatigue. “Better. I’m - ” he gave a small laugh. “You’re here?”

Martin looked confused for a moment, then his features relaxed again into that gentle ‘Martin’ expression that Jon loved. Loved. Loved. “Yeah, I – well, I wanted to see how you were doing. And –” He swung his rucksack over onto his chest. “I brought you some books, in case you get bored.”

He stepped forward, and placed the selection of paperback books into Jon’s lap. All of them wore cracked spins, and the pages all curled in separate directions. They looked well read. Jon ran his hand over the cover of the first one, feeling the small divots of the page where the title was inlayed in.

“Thank you, Martin. That’s very kind – oh.” He stopped as he looked through the pile. “Poetry. Huh.”

Martin rolled an amused smile between his teeth, and raised his eyebrow in a challenging manner.

“Are you hoping I get bored enough to resort to this?” He held up the copy. It was a collection of poems, all by an assortment of writers. Out of all the books he had been handed, this one looked like it had been read the most. Some of the pages were still dog-eared, marking what must be favourites of Martin.

“Oh my - that must have just slipped in there,” he said airily, looking around with a blasé expression across his face. Jon’s smile twisted into a smirk, and he shook his head.

“No promises,” he said. “But thank you.”

“You are very welcome, Jon,” he said, looking far too pleased with himself. “There are some good ones in there, that I’m sure even the biggest poetry sceptic would enjoy.”

“I’m not a sceptic,” he argued. “I just – it’s just a very convoluted way of getting to the point, you know? Just – just say what you mean, enough with the dancing around.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” said Martin. “Just know that you are wrong.”

“Sounds like an argument.”

“Nope,” he smiled. “Merely stating facts.”

“That fact that I’m wrong?”

“So you agree?”

Jon cocked his head to the side, and narrowed his eyes in a sigh. Martin’s smile broke wider, into a cheeky grin. His eyes twinkled playfully, and Jon felt his heart swell. Jon shook his head with a small laugh, conceding the debate.

Jon placed the books to the side of him, and gestured for Martin to sit. He obliged, if not somewhat awkwardly, as he gingerly perched atop the foot of his bed.

“Thank you for coming, Martin,” said Jon, wishing more than anything that he could reach out and take Martin’s hand. That moment in the hospital had ruined him for any other touch, and now his thoughts were alight with desire to feel Martin’s fingers slotting between his.

“Of course, Jon,” he said. The pooling light from the window silhouetted Martin’s soft features as he looked at Jon, the gentle curve of his lips highlighted in the golden incandescent light. The hint of pink on his cheeks showed through, too. “I like seeing you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A beat passed, and then Martin cleared his throat. “It’s weird not having you at work.” He gave a small laugh. “Forgot what I used to do at lunch before – yeah.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” said Jon. “Exams are next week.” He sighed. “I didn’t exactly time this accident well.”

“Nope,” said Martin, with a solid shake of his head. Jon knotted his eyebrows in confusion. “You need to give your body time to heal, Jon - your health is more important than grades.”

Jon snorted. “Hm, tell that to the angry parents demanding to know why their child only got a C. God forbid the reason be that they never turned up to the classes.”

“I’ll deal with the parents – you stay here, and rest,” said Martin firmly. Jon mumbled something under his breath, to which Martin responded with a stern expression, and a raised eyebrow.

“Why do I get the feeling if I return to work, you’ll physically drag me back here?”

“Because that is exactly what I’ll do.”

Jon laughed. “It is quite cruel to leave a substitute with Dylan, though – isn’t it?”

Martin gave a forlorn nod. “It’s a sacrifice I am willing to make.”

“You’re quite stubborn, you know that?”

“It’s been said.”

Jon hummed in reply, before turning his neck towards the window, with it’s drawn curtains and hint of sunlight. He gave a small sigh as he peeled the duvet away from him, and slowly edged his feet over the side of the bed. The sharpness of the pain had become a lot more diluted, and now just rang as an echoed cry of its former intensity. He pushed himself upright, feeling his bones click into place with a satisfying pop.

“What do you need?” asked Martin, rising to his feet, and moving just outside of Jon’s perimeter.

“Oh,” blinked Jon. “I don’t really – I was just going to open the blinds.”

He gestured weakly over to the window. Martin nodded, and made his way over to it. He drew back the curtains, allowing the early evening sun to shine through into the room. The clouds were grey, but bright, and Jon’s eyes flinched closed momentarily.

“I could’ve done that,” mumbled Jon, as he lowered himself back down onto the bed.

Martin smiled at him. “I know, I just – hm, yeah.”

“Concise.”

“Shush.”

With the room now well-illuminated, Jon could now see his reflection in the mirror that sat pressed against the wall. A groggy, skinny looking man looked back at him. His hair stood on five different ends, jutting out at uncomfortable angles from where it had escaped the low ponytail that he always wore it in. He gave a small huff as he freed the rest of his hair, and drew his scraggly fingers through it. The ends of the strands clumped together in knots.

“Martin,” said Jon. “Could you – hm, can you please pass me my hairbrush? It’s just on top of the dresser.”

“Course,” said Martin. He retrieved it in a few steps, and returned to Jon’s side. He didn’t hand it to Jon, though; instead, he placed it atop of the side table, and gestured for Jon to turn to his side. Jon blinked, confused, but nonetheless obliging.

He could feel Martin to the side of him, a silent and pressing weight of consciousness. He felt overly aware of the other man’s movements, as he listened to the rustle of his shirt as his arms moved up to meet his hair. Soft fingers began to card their way through it, gently teasing against his scalp as Martin eased the knots away.

“I can brush my own hair,” said Jon, before raising his good arm. “This one still works, anyway.”

“I know that, Jon,” replied Martin, softly. “Just let me help, okay?”

Jon grumbled.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, the movement of his fingers halting. Jon missed it immediately.

“No, no, it’s okay,” sighed Jon. “I – thank you, Martin.”

Martin hummed, and continued to ease the tangles away. “Let me know if this hurts.”

“Mhm,” said Jon, with a contended sigh. It had been years since someone had touched his hair. Georgie used to run her hands through it when they were together – it was shorter then, and dyed an awful mixture of colours, and had been terrifically damaged. Before her, it would have been his grandmother; but only when he was very young. No clear memories came to mind, but he knew, somewhere, they would be there.

But when Martin did it, it felt like he had never been touched before. Each time his fingers moved away, only to dive back in, Jon’s heart thrummed in quiet delight. He moved with such caring and delicate precision that made Jon just want to melt into each touch and live there forever.

Once the knots had been untangled, Martin moved in with the brush; as slow and as gentle as before. The sensation wasn’t as pleasant as his fingers, but just knowing that the action came from Martin was enough to make Jon’s heart glow.

“You’re very good at this,” mused Jon. “The looking after people thing.”

Martin let out a fond exhale. “Thank you. I have a lot of practice, I guess.”

“From guidance?”

There was a moment of silence, and the motion of the brushing stilled alongside the quiet. “No, I – I used to look after my mother.”

“Oh.”

“Mhm,” sounded Martin. “She got sick when I was in school – when I was about seventeen. I, uh, I had to drop out – to look after her.”

“Martin, I’m so sorry.”

There was a sound similar to the shaking of a head. “It’s fine, honestly. I mean – ” he laughed. “It sucked, don’t get me wrong. But it’s fine.”

“That’s a difficult thing to go through so young,” said Jon.

“I suppose,” murmured Martin. Another beat passed. “I think that’s why I wanted to go into guidance. I – I never really got any support from school when she got sick. I was never showed any other options. I don’t want other kids to go through that, you know?”

Jon nodded. “That’s – hm, you’re quite wonderful, Martin. I hope you know that.”

“Hardly Mother Teresa,” he said with a snort. “But thank you, Jon – really.” There was a calm silence between them, until Martin cleared his throat, and took a step back. “That’s, uh – that’s me done.”

Jon ran his hand through his hair with ease, and tucked the strands behind his ears and away from his face. He shuffled around, so that he was facing Martin. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” said Martin. He fell back down beside Jon with a thud, his weight pulling the mattress down, so that Jon slanted towards him, their knees knocking together gently.

Jon looked over to Martin, who, to his surprise, was looking straight back at him; his eyes wide, and his lips parted gently. In his proximity, Jon could hear the other man’s soft breaths, and see the soft flicker of his eyes as they traced down to Jon’s lips. He swallowed.

“I – I meant it,” said Jon, his voice suddenly feeling too loud for the space. “I think you’re – you are -” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m not great with, uh – with words.”

“Comforting words from an English teacher,” said Martin, with a smile as he gently placed his hand against Jon’s knee. In an instant, Jon was brought back to that moment, in Martin’s office, all those months ago – when he had offered comfort in that same way, in that gentle gesture. Jon had wondered then how it would feel to hold Martin’s hand; had wondered what that warmth would feel like against him.

He knew now.

He knew the way Martin’s hand bowed, how his fingers slotted between his, and he knew the way the lines on the palms curved up and outwards, telling a story that he couldn’t read.

Something about a love line.

He liked this version of Jon, this Jon who knew those things. He took a long breath, and reached out, placing his hand atop of Martin’s. There was the sound of a quiet gasp, and then the feeling of Martin’s hand turning slowly underneath his, so that their palms lay flush against one another. In a concurrent rhythm, their fingers interlocked into each other; and Jon could feel the quickened pulse of Martin’s heart against his wrist. 

“I think you are too,” continued Martin, his voice almost a whisper.

The edges of Jon’s lips tilted upwards. “I never finished the sentence.”

“I think I got what you meant.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Jon swallowed, expectancy weighing heavily on him. He didn’t want to be a coward, he didn’t want to tip-toe around this want, or skirt around affection. He wanted this – he wanted Martin’s hand in his, he wanted Martins smile aimed at him, he wanted to kiss him - he wanted _Martin_.

“Martin, can I – can I kiss you?”

One second Jon was asking that question, the next Martin was kissing him. It was quick, as if he was afraid that, at any second, Jon would take back the question, as if the window would close on the opportunity, locking him out. Jon gasped into it, the kiss melting away the fear that had bloomed as soon as he had freed that question, that request, that want.

The kiss was over before it started, and Martin pulled back with wide eyes, his pupils flickering between Jon’s.

“You kissed me,” whispered Jon, his voice feeling alien to him – the voice of someone who had kissed Martin, who Martin had kissed. His fingers feathered along his lips, feeling the soft dampness of them. Under his hand, he smiled.

“Yeah, I – yeah,” breathed Martin, swallowing.

“Do it again.”

Martin’s lips cracked into a beautiful grin, as he let out a breathy laugh. Jon felt his own face break into a beam, and Martin’s hands rose to cup his expression. Jon leant into the touch, and Martin moved forward to meet him.

Martin’s lips were soft against his, and he kissed with the warm hum of excitement and glee. The sensation was tantalising, as his laughter vibrated against Jon’s lips. His hands carded through Jon’s hair, resting gently at the nape of his neck, and cupping it with such soft consideration. Jon wished more than anything that he had use of both arms, so that he could hold as much of Martin as possible, and hold him tight and close against him. His good hand rested against Martin’s cheek, feeling the gentle dimple of his smile, and the soft tickle of stubble.

Martin smelt of orange blossom, as he always did, but the smell had never bloomed so sweetly as it did in that moment. Jon became every touch Martin gifted, every airy kiss and soft mumbles against his lips.

When they parted, he rested his forehead against Martin’s, and closed his eyes against the soft sound of their breathing. He laughed again, unable to contain the feeling of utter joy that he felt. He opened his eyes and looked into Martin’s, who’s were crinkled in a gentle spider web pattern that mirrored his own happiness.

“That was – I liked that,” said Jon, feeling almost breathless. “Thank you.”

“Did you just thank me for kissing you?” said Martin, gently looping his arms around Jon’s waist, and pulling him in closer. Jon draped his arm around Martin’s neck.

Jon reddened. “Yes, apparently so.”

He grinned, and ran his hand across Jon’s face, gently tracing the curve of his cheek. He laughed, the sound no more than a breath, but weighted in adoration. “I really like you, Jon.”

Jon’s chest blossomed at those words, and he felt his smile grow, somehow, wider. His eyes crinkled playfully. “As a friend, yes.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Oh yes. This is purely platonic.”

“I really like you too, Martin,” said Jon.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I like you a lot,” said Martin.

“You said,” smiled Jon.

“Wanted to say it again.” His hands fell from Jon’s face to his hips, his thumbs resting gently against his stomach. “God, I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

Jon blinked. After Martin kissing him, he didn’t think anything else could surprise him; evidently, he was wrong. “Is that so?”

“Kind of, uh - since we met, I guess?” admitted Martin, with a pink hue to his cheeks.

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Even though I was an arse?”

“You weren’t that much of an arse,” argued Martin. Jon raised his eyebrow higher, causing Martin to laugh. God, Jon loved being the reason for that sound. “Okay, okay – you were a bit. But you were also very pretty, so I was quite distracted.”

Jon felt his cheeks warm, and he hid his blush in the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin laughed again, and Jon felt it ripple through his whole body. Listening to Martin laugh was one thing – but feeling it. Feeling the way the joy moved through his body; that was something else, something magical. Jon couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be allowed to be there, pressed against Martin, with their arms entangled in one another.

“Can I kiss you again?” asked Jon into Martin’s neck.

“Of course,” said Martin. “You can do whatever - ” Jon looked up at him, in time to see the uncomfortable and flushed expression that Martin now wore. “That – that came out wrong. I didn’t mean it like – like, ah – yes, you can kiss me. Ignore everything else.”

Jon paused, and worried his lip for a moment. He pulled his arms forward, so that his hands just rested on the curve of the other man’s shoulders, and took a breath. “Martin, I should probably tell you something, if – if, uh, well you want to go somewhere with this – with us.”

_Us._

Jon watched as Martin swallowed, his Adams apple bobbing. He nodded expectantly. “Yeah, Jon – what is it?”

Jon swallowed. “I don’t want to have sex.”

“Oh – okay?”

“I mean, like ever,” continued Jon. “I’m asexual, Martin. Sex isn’t something – something I’m comfortable with, or interested in. I – I know that a sexual aspect of a relationship is to be expected, so I understand if this is a – ” He sighed. “ – A dealbreaker. But I needed to put that out there – I needed you to know that, about me. Is that okay with you?”

Martin smiled, and nodded. “God, you scared me, Jon. I thought you were going to say you were straight, or something.”

A surprised laugh broke past Jon’s lips, and he relaxed back into Martin’s arms again. “So – so you’re okay with that, with not having sex?”

He placed a hand on Jon’s cheek, and ran his thumb across his jaw. “Of course, Jon. Sex is – well lets just say I hardly depend on it. I don’t care if we don’t have sex, Jon – I just want to be with you. I like just _being_ with you.”

Jon leant forward and kissed him, cupping his face in his hand, and smiling into it. Martin sighed, placing his hand against Jon’s, and drawing small circles against his skin with his thumb.

“God, that sounded really cheesy, didn’t it?” said Martin as Jon pulled back.

Jon shook his head. “No, no – it was perfect. Thank you, Martin.”

“Now that’s cheesy.”

“Shut up,” grumbled Jon.

“Hey, Jon,” said Martin.

“Hm?”

“I’m really happy right now.”

It felt so easy to fall for Martin. Martin, who never had to coax the words from Jon with any effort, just his presence was enough. Martin, who had looked at his steel exterior and biting words, and wanted to stay. Martin, who had looked at him with such a soft intensity, who made his vulnerability no longer feel like a hindrance; who Jon wanted to be vulnerable around. He wanted to be known by Martin, and he wanted to know him.

He was so easy to love, and god, did Jon love him.

“Me too, Martin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bro .... I don't want to assume, but I think these guys might be into each other??  
> They kissed! Ah finally! I messaged my friend and was like 'hey, it's been like 60k words ... is it too soon for them to kiss?' and then she yelled at me to make them kiss .... so they have kissed. Everyone say thank you Amelia.   
> Thank you so much for reading, we're two chapters away from the end now, which is making me feel genuinely sad - writing this fic, and interacting with all of you guys has been the main thing getting me through lockdown. Thank you, I hope you all know how much it means to me that you've given my story a chance, and a read, and have given me support. I love all of you so much, whether or not you interact with this story, or just silently read it - thank you!!!!! Ah! Anyway, see you guys on the 7th!


	15. Picture me Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hi,” said Jon, affection audible in his tone.   
> “Mmh – hi,” grumbled Martin, his voice low and groggy from sleep. Martin mumbled some more as he brought his other arm around Jon, pulling him closer. “You’re chilly.”  
> “And you’re warm,” said Jon, burrowing his head under Martin’s chin. He felt Martin’s laugh ripple through him, and he savoured the sensation. It wasn’t one he ever felt he would tire of.   
> “Perfect then,” he murmured, his words muffled slightly against his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope everybody has had a wonderful week x  
> For the 3D Lessons in Caring experience, I may recommend listening to the song 'cosmic force' by Angel Olsen during a later scene when the two lads put some music on - very pretty song, and is referenced in the context of the story.  
> Anyway, hope you all enjoy this weeks chapter!

There was warmth against Jon when he awoke. Scattered rays of morning light sneaked past the curtains, and painted golden streaks across the room, and across the soft profile of Martin, who lay sleeping beside him. Up close, Jon could see every sun kissed speckle, mark and freckle that graced his skin. Jon followed them with his eyes, connecting the dots in his head as they lead him around the map of Martin’s peaceful expression. Soft lines spiderwebbed out from his eyes, like rivers carving through mountains, feathering out into ghosts upon his skin. Jon wished to kiss them, to run his hands across Martin’s face, and feel each divot and rise.

He supposed he could, if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to rouse the other man, contend to stay there, tucked in beside him. Martin’s arm was stretched out towards Jon, nestled under his neck, and folded back in on itself; so that his hand lay nestled in Jon’s hair. He remembered falling asleep to the feeling of his hands tracing whispers against his crown, and mutterings of affection. He bit down a fond smile, burying his expression into Martin’s chest, feeling soft cotton against his skin.

There was a mumble from Martin, and Jon felt his body shift below him, his human pillow twisting around to face him. Through half-lidded, half-awake eyes, he smiled at Jon, wide and easy. His eyes fluttered closed again for a moment, teetering on falling back into unconsciousness.

“Hi,” said Jon, affection audible in his tone.

“Mmh – hi,” grumbled Martin, his voice low and groggy from sleep. Martin mumbled some more as he brought his other arm around Jon, pulling him closer. “You’re chilly.”

“And you’re warm,” said Jon, burrowing his head under Martin’s chin. He felt Martin’s laugh ripple through him, and he savoured the sensation. It wasn’t one he ever felt he would tire of.

“Perfect then,” he murmured, his words muffled slightly against his pillow.

“Quite,” mused Jon. He tilted his head upwards, and pressed a soft kiss against Martin’s jaw, into which he responded in kind with a kiss against Jon’s forehead.

“I like that,” said Jon. “You kissing me. It’s – I like it.”

“That’s good,” he laughed. “Was planning on doing it a lot.”

Jon gave a contended and quiet laugh as he fisted the fabric of Martin’s shirt, feeling the soft twist of cotton against his fingers. He smiled into his hand, and allowed himself to enjoy the moment, before moving his arms around Martin’s torso with a sigh. Warmth radiated off of Martin, seeping through his shirt and staining Jon’s hands with the soft heat. Martin nuzzled his face into Jon’s hair.

“It is at moments after I have dreamed,” he said, his words muffled against Jon, “of the rare entertainment of your eyes, when – ” He pulled away, looking at Jon with consideration “ - _being fool to fancy,_ I have deemed - with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise; at moments when – ” He gifted Jon another kiss against his forehead “ - the glassy darkness holds the genuine apparition of your smile.”

Jon took in those words, his lips tilting into kindness, as he leant up to kiss Martin on the lips. Martin hummed into it, his hands tightening momentarily around Jon, before slackening as Jon broke the embrace. “That was nice,” he said. “What was it?”

“I think it’s called a kiss,” said Martin, cocking his head to the side smugly.

Jon huffed. “You know what I meant – the poem, Martin. It – I liked it.”

“You did, huh?” He smiled like the cat who had gotten the cream. “It’s EE Cummings.”

“Well, I liked it when you read it,” said Jon. “But I might be biased.”

Martin’s cocky and teasing expression broke instantly into a flushed state, with wide blinking eyes and a stammered composure. “You - ? Yeah?”

“I thought that was apparent,” smiled Jon, running his hand up and down the length of Martin’s spine.

“Mmh,” sighed Martin appreciatively. Then, in almost a mumble, “What time is it?”

Jon groaned. “Not important.”

Martin shuffled slightly, as he reached for his phone. The harsh blue light pricked at Jon’s eyes as Martin illuminated it the screen.

“Oh Christ,” groaned Martin. “I’m going to be late.”

In reply, Jon gripped Martin’s shirt tighter, and looped his legs around his, cocooning him in his body. Martin gave an amused huff against Jon’s head, and held him tighter for a second, before going slack. Jon grumbled a complaint, as Martin slowly eased himself upright, bringing Jon up with him, who was wrapped around him like forgotten vines.

“Nobody needs guidance today,” said Jon. “Everyone’s fine.”

“ _That_ would be nice,” hummed Martin, as he carded a hand through Jon’s hair, cupping the nape of his neck, and guiding him forward for a kiss. It was chaste, and sweet, and, oh – what a wonderful thing to wake up to. Martin pulled away, but Jon quickly chased his smile, desperately wanting to take advantage of their dwindling time.

“I really do need to get ready,” Martin reminded him. Jon wrinkled his nose, but loosened his hold, nonetheless. Martin slipped away from his touch, shifting out of the bed and towards the pile of clothes that he had discarded the night before. He shoved his legs into his trousers, and wrestled his slightly wrinkled button up on over his undershirt.

“God, Tim is going to have a field day with me wearing yesterday’s clothes,” chuckled Martin, as he closed the last button. “Almost don’t want to go in just to avoid that.”

“Then don’t,” stated Jon plainly.

“ _Jon_ ,” he warned, but the tone was soft, and heatless under his smile. “Can I see you later?”

“Well, I would say you could see me at work - ” He raised an eyebrow at Martin. “But somebody said I wasn’t allowed in the building.”

“I stand by that,” he maintained.

Jon smiled. “Yes, yes – I know.”

“So?”

“So,” echoed Jon.

“So – can I see you later?” said Martin, moving forward towards Jon, and placing his hands against the curve of his shoulder. 

Jon hooked his hand around Martin’s wrist, feeling the steady drum of his heartbeat pulse through his grip. He ran his thumb along the length of his hand, before pressing a soft kiss against the inside of his arm. He looked back up to Martin, whose cheeks were tinged with a mesmerising shade of pink.

 _I did that_ , he thought to himself.

“Yes, I’d quite like that,” he said. “I’d like that a lot, in fact.”

Martin pressed another kiss against his lips. Now that it was an option, it seemed both of them were keen to take every opportunity given to kiss the other. Not that Jon was complaining.

“Do you want to – maybe we could, uh, get dinner, or something?” asked Martin. “Or – or we could cook here, together. If you’re not feeling up for going out.”

“Like a date?” The question was more of a statement desiring confirmation than a question. The words sounded funny on his tongue; the syllables not quite used to being formed by his mouth. He liked it, though. A date, _with Martin_. Martin nodded, and Jon smiled. “Eating here sounds preferable. I’m not – I’m not all that fond of busy restaurants, if I’m being honest.”

“Too noisy,” agreed Martin, wrinkling his nose in a way that was too endearing to be legal. “I could come by around seven? Preferably not in day old clothes.”

“Seven is perfect,” said Jon. “And you would look nice in any-day old clothes.”

“Wouldn’t smell great, though.”

Jon chuckled. “Hm, perhaps not.”

Martin twisted a strand of Jon’s hair around his finger, his gaze watching the blackness encompass his fingers with a fond curiosity. The loose curl slipped free from his hold, springing back to join the mess of others that hung around Jon’s face. He looked to Jon with a sad resignation. “I should probably – I really am going to be late.”

“The students will live,” said Jon, moving his hand away from Martin’s wrist and up towards the crook of his elbow. “But if you must.”

“Here was me thinking that you had a good work ethic.”

“Oh, god no – my work ethic is atrocious,” declared Jon. “Don’t confuse me being there a lot with me being good at my job. That’s how I ended up in therapy, mind you.”

Martin snorted, and then quickly covered his mouth. “Sorry – am I allowed to laugh at that?”

“I would hope, it was a joke after all.”

Martin uncovered his smile, and Jon rose to kiss it. This one had more force behind than the last, more weighted desire. God, this was real – this was him kissing Martin, this was Martin kissing him back. How Jon would get used to this, he didn’t know. Part of him didn’t want to ever get used to it, he never wanted to take this touch for granted, or have its effect on him lessen. The embrace broke with a breathy sigh.

“Right,” said Jon, resting his hands against Martin’s chest, “as much as I don’t want you to leave – I also don’t want Elias firing you.”

“Elias wishes he could fire me,” joked Martin. He pulled back to slip his jacket on; instinctively, Jon reached out to fix the collar. It wasn’t crumpled, he just wanted to. Martin smiled in a way Jon could only describe as lovingly. “Bye, Jon.”

“Have a good day at work,” said Jon, reluctant to relinquish Martin’s presence. “I’ll see you later.”

“At seven.”

“At seven.”

“Promise me you’ll get some rest?”

“I only just woke up,” Jon reminded him.

“ _Jon_.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes – yes, I _promise_. Now, come on.”

Martin beamed. “Okay, okay – goodbye, really.”

And just like that, Martin was gone, closing the bedroom door behind him with a soft click. It was funny, one night, and already Jon’s bedroom felt wrong without Martin in it. His bed looked too big for one person, perfect for two – two people in particular. He ran his hand across the sheet, rumpled slightly from countless nights of tossing and turning. Not last night, though. Martin’s presence had anchored Jon, sailing him out towards peaceful respite. Sleeping next to Martin might’ve been the best night sleep Jon had ever had.

The bed was still warm from the memory of their night. He smiled to himself, to the bed, and to the thought of Martin kissing him. His hands moved away from the bed, and around the room, before landing on the small pile of books that Martin had brought him.

He looked behind his shoulder, checking to see if either Georgie or Martin were standing there. When the coast seemed clear, he picked up the poetry book.

It was a thick book, and difficult to navigate with only one arm; but he managed to flip his way over towards the index, his index finger carved down the page, landing on E.

As thought, the poem Martin had recited was sat there, under EE Cumming’s name. Quickly, Jon flicked to the page. The words he had spoken were there, printed in black against white, and seemingly too small for the weight they had carried on Martin’s lips.

His thumb kissed the pages of the book, moving in the same motion as he had drawn his fingers against Martin’s face. The page had none of the warmth of Martin, but sentimentality always carried its own heat.

_… The genuine apparition of your smile_

_(It was through tears always) and silence moulds_

_such strangeness as was mine a little while;_

_Moments when my one more illustrious arms_

_are filled with fascination, when my breast_

_Wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:_

_One pierced moment whiter than the rest –_

_Turning from the tremendous lie of sleep,_

_I watched the roses of the day grow deep._

For this, for Martin, Jon could make an exception to his dislike of poetry. But, when it came to Martin, there was little Jon wouldn’t make an exception for.

* * *

“That’s the dishes done,” said Martin as he stepped back into the living room, wiping his hands dry on his trousers.

Jon looked up from the Admiral, his hand burrowed deep in his ginger fur. “Thank you, Martin.”

“Of course.” Martin smiled, falling onto the couch beside Jon. “Thank you for dinner.”

Jon scoffed. “You cooked most of it.”

“You told me what to do, though,” pointed out Martin, draping his arm over Jon’s shoulder. Looking at them, one would’ve thought that they had done it a million times before; with the way Jon melted against Martin’s side. His hand rose up to meet Martin’s hand as if on instinct, interlocking their fingers. Martin gave his hand a small squeeze, his free hand gifting the Admiral a few scritches under his chin. At the touch, the Admiral clambered off of Jon’s lap, finding comfort in Martin instead.

“Rude,” said Jon to the cat. He could hardly blame the Admiral – Martin was particularly nice to cosy up to. Martin laughed, pressing a fond kiss against Jon’s head, and strokes against the Admirals.

“You’ve got your hands full,” said Georgie as she walked through into the room, plopping herself down in the armchair across from them. Martin made to move his arm away from Jon, but Georgie quickly waved the notion off, a small satisfied smile on her face.

Jon had told her about him and Martin – or, more truthfully, she had sussed it out. Apparently ten minutes in his company was enough to give himself away. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t stop smiling. Which, in Georgie’s words, had been described as ‘quite insufferable’.

“How was work today?” asked Georgie to Martin, tucking her feet under her, and propping her head up in her hands.

Martin nodded. “It was good, yeah – exam season is always a bit busier for me. But I, uh – I guess it’s busier for everyone, though.” He gave a quiet laugh. “Just of a lot of preventing nervous breakdowns.”

“Wow,” said Georgie. “Perfect practice for dating Jon then.”

“Georgie,” warned Jon, raising his eyebrow up at her. She waggled her own back at him.

“Joking,” she laughed. “Sort of.”

Martin chuckled. “I, uh – I did get to finally meet Elias’ husband, though – Elias is the headteacher,” he added for Georgie. “He came in for a meeting about funding, or something – apparently he supports the school, like - financially.”

“Aren’t we a state school?” Jon’s eyebrows knotted together in puzzlement. “That’s odd, though. What was he like?”

“I told you he was a, uh - a sea captain, right?”

Jon nodded, humming.

“Yeah, well, he like turned up in his full garb,” said Martin, moving his free hand in a gesticulate fashion. “He looked kind of like the Birds Eye logo, you know – with the white beard, and hat, and everything. I, heh - I heard one of the younger students ask if it was, like, pirate day, or something.”

It was at that exact moment a devilish smile cracked across Georgie’s face, her eyes going wide for a moment. “Speaking of pirates … “

Jon felt his blood run cold, and he sunk a little deeper into Martin’s hold.

“Georgie, no,” he tried, his tone one of resignation for what he knew was about to happen. She gave him a look that very much read ‘Georgie, yes’. Jon sighed as he dropped Martin’s hand so as to cover his face.

“What’s happening?” asked Martin, his pitch higher in uncertainty.

“Nothing,” said Jon. “Nothing is happening. Right, Georgie?”

Georgie ignored him, her manic stare now on Martin. “Did you know Jon was in a band in uni?”

Martin faltered. “I – uh, yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Did you know I have photos?”

Jon peered through his fingers to see Martin’s face grow into one of utter glee, akin to a child seeing a poorly disguised bicycle under the Christmas tree.

“I did not,” gasped Martin. “But I would absolutely love to see them.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” said Jon, in an attempt to save himself some humiliation. “You wouldn’t.” He looked at Georgie. “He wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“I think he would, Jon.”

Jon groaned, curling in on himself. Georgie had already bounced onto her feet, and scampered off towards her room where Jon knew she kept all of her old photo albums. Too many of which, Jon stared in.

“How bad are they?” said Martin, a playful smile on his face.

Jon felt his face go warm. “Well, I, uh - I did mention the eyeliner, and the, uh, the ripped jeans and all of that. But, uh, that’s all a slight – slight under-exaggeration of the, uh, the look we went for.”

At that, Georgie skidded back into the room, a slim black book in her hands. She stood before Jon and Martin, and gestured for them to move. Somewhat reluctantly, the two split, leaving space for Georgie in the middle. It was cramped, with their shoulders all squeezed in together, but physical discomfort was the last thing on Jon’s mind in that moment.

“What do you know about his band?” asked Georgie, as she rolled a teasing smile between her lips.

“Uh, that he was in it?” tried Martin. “And, uh – eyeliner. I know about the eyeliner.”

Georgie gave Jon a look. “You really should share more, Jon – sharing is part of a healthy relationship.”

“Georgie, you’re on thin enough ice as it is right now,” said Jon through gritted teeth. She just beamed back at him, untouched by his tone. She shuffled in her seat, before opening the book out in her lap. Martin and Jon both peered over Georgie’s shoulder at the photos before them.

God, it was worse than Jon remembered. Before them, on the page, sat a selection of photos that Jon and his old bandmates had taken together. However, the ones before them were just solo shots. Jon, the younger Jon, was dressed in a remarkable get up. His black hair, noticeably absent of any grey, was held back by a pair of gold steampunk style goggles, which Jon wishes he had been wearing properly – if only to hide the mess of eye make-up that he remembered, at the time, feeling very proud of. His eyes were rimmed in smudged, black eyeshadow; and lightning bolts were painted on with eyeliner, carving down his face.

“Why do you have a gun?” asked Martin, pointing to the holster than sat on the printed version of his hips. The holster was slung over ripped black jeans, and a flowing white shirt was messily tucked into them, covered over with a waistcoat.

“We were, uh – we were space pirates. That was the whole, uh – the whole shtick,” explained Jon, through the hand that was covering his face.

“Immortal space-pirates,” added Georgie, with a nod.

“Oh,” said Martin. “That’s – that’s quite cool, actually.”

“The immortal bit, or the space-pirate bit?” asked Georgie. “Cause, uh – he’s not actually immortal. Or a space-pirate, mind you.”

“Both?” said Martin, then he laughed, pointing to a new photo as Georgie flicked the page. “Jon, why are you biting a guitar?”

“It – uh, it’s not important.”

“I didn’t know you played guitar.”

Jon sighed. “I don’t.”

“So – ”

“Yes, Martin,” said Jon wearily. “Whatever you were going to say, the answer is probably yes.”

“These really aren’t that embarrassing,” reassured Martin, thumbing the page. “Strange, yes. But overall, kind of cool. You, uh – you look good, actually.”

“Oh,” sounded Jon, feeling his face warm for a different reason. “Thank you.”

“I can find actual embarrassing photos,” chimed in Georgie unhelpfully. “Though, really thought I hit the nail on the head with these ones.”

“No,” said Jon, putting his hand over the photo album, and closing it. “That’s quite enough of that for one night.”

“Jon,” she whined, but put up no real protest. She cocked her head towards Martin, though. “Next time, alright? There’s a real stunning one of his face all mooshed up against a toilet seat, looking absolutely out of his mind. Real artsy, very classy. I’ll have to find it for you sometime.”

“Oh, really?” replied Martin keenly. Georgie nodded enthusiastically. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be meeting Melanie?” said Jon, desperate to deter the conversation from anymore embarrassing photos, or, god forbid, anecdotes. As much as he loved the fact that both Georgie and Martin seemed to be getting along, the fact that it was at the expense of his humility was somewhat a negative. “It’s almost eight, you’re going to be late.”

“Oh, actually?” Jon nodded in confirmation. “Ah, shit – give me a second.”

Georgie scrambled to her feet, dropping the photo album atop of the coffee table – “just in case,” she’d said with a wink, before quickly making her way back to her bedroom.

“I’m sorry about that,” said Jon, as soon as he heard Georgie’s door click closed.

Martin breathed a laugh. “What, why? That was – ”

“Mortifying.”

“ _Interesting_ ,” corrected Martin. “Good interesting. I wish I had photos like that - it looks like you were having fun.”

Jon hummed. “I suppose I was. I would, uh, forgo the eyeliner, though.”

“Oh, I was quite a fan of the eyeliner,” said Martin, in a very matter-of-fact way. Jon raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on his lips. Martin caught his eye, and his own face broke into a smile. Jon suddenly became aware of the Georgie-shaped gap between them, and quickly killed it as he moved back towards Martin.

“Is that so?” he asked, inclining his neck upwards, a teasing note to his tone. Martin’s smile fell into something softer, his eyes crinkling like the dog-eared pages of his poetry book. A small pink hue scattered itself across his cheeks, a sunset against his skin. The pink of his cheeks was nothing on the rose-bud hue of his lips, dampened as his tongue peeked out. Jon kissed him. How could he not?

“Oh – hi,” mumbled Martin against Jon’s lips.

“You’re making me want to be homophobic,” came Georgie’s voice from behind them. Jon snapped back in surprise, his head shooting up to look up at his roommate, who was standing with a hand on her hip, and a smug look on her face.

“That being said,” she continued, “do you think if I wear this top, Melanie will want to touch my boobs?”

She pointed at the item of clothing in question; a long-sleeved black mesh top, over which sat a satin camisole, tucked into a pair of high waisted, red bell-bottoms. Her curls were split into two buns, both piled atop of her head. Loose waves framed her dark complexion.

Jon blinked. “I, uh – honestly, Georgie, there could not be two people less equipped to answer that question than us.”

“You look very nice, though,” said Martin. “I like the trousers.”

She grinned, doing a small twirl for the two of them. “They were only a fiver from the British Heart Foundation.”

“So, are you and Melanie …” Jon wavered off. “Is tonight a – a date?”

Georgie sucked on her teeth in thought, her gaze focusing on some nondescript corner of their living room. “It’s a, uh – it’s a ‘let’s see what happens’.”

“Nice and explicit,” mused Jon, nodding. Beside him, Martin chuckled.

“Oh, leave off,” she scoffed, lightly smacking the side of his head. She grabbed her coat from where she had discarded earlier, slung across the kitchen chair, and pushed her body into it. “I will be back when I am back, don’t wait up – okay?”

“Say hi to Melanie from me,” said Jon, as Martin said, “Have fun!”

She ruffled Jon’s hair quickly, and gave Martin’s shoulder a squeeze. “Bye!”

And just like that, the door closed behind her with a click, leaving the two men alone on the couch. The home was noticeably more quiet with Georgie’s presence gone; the silence strengthened by the overt awareness of Jon’s own breathing. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say to Martin, he found he very rarely struggled to communicate his thoughts to the other man – even if they sometimes came out less coherent than planned. And Martin was always good at filling up silence with chatter; telling Jon about his day, and what he’d been reading, and – ‘oh, you’ll never guess what I saw today’. But this felt new, and Jon could feel that Martin was equally aware of this fact; of this uncharted territory they were entering.

This new relationship; this version of their friendship, tinted now with revelations of love – it was scary, in a funny way. Jon didn’t want to mess this up – he wasn’t going to mess this up. He couldn’t. He’d tasted less than 24-hours of shameless affection, and he couldn’t go back to their before. Of course, any shade of relationship with Martin would still be more than he deserved, simply for it containing the existence of Martin. But Martin’s arm was around him, and it was the most perfect thing Jon had ever experienced.

“Do you want me to put on some music?” asked Jon, moving to stand.

Martin put a hand on Jon’s shoulder, and gently eased him back down against the couch. “Sure, yeah. Sit, though, alright?”

Jon would’ve argued had it been anyone else, but it was undeniably nice. It was nice having someone care about him, someone who wanted to look after him, someone who wanted to make life easier for him. He rolled a small smile between his teeth, and gestured towards the stereo, and the shelf above it. The shelf was lined with a row of CD’s; a mixture of his and Georgie’s, but the two’s taste intertwined so heavily that neither was entirely sure which record belonged to who.

Martin moved over, his finger running along the spines of the plastic casing. “Any preference?”

Jon thought for a moment, before he pushed himself to his feet. He swallowed down the stretch of pain, fumbling his way over to the shelf. His arms looped round Martin’s torso, in a split desire to hold him, and to be held up.

Martin craned his neck over his shoulder, catching Jon’s eyes in the corner of his. “I thought you were going to sit down?”

“I forgot what CD’s I owned,” he mumbled against Martin’s back. He let go of Martin to point a finger at one of the cases. “That one’s nice. I saw her live once.”

Martin hummed, one hand cupping the one Jon had wrapped around him, the other slipping the case out. In a few moments, the whir of the stereo sounded, and soft music filled the space.

Jon swayed slightly where he stood, stopping only to allow Martin to turn to face him, bringing up his own arms around Jon. He buried his face in Martin’s chest, feeling the steady thumb of his heart against his skin. It drummed in time to the music, soft and sweet; melodic in its own way. Gentler than any song, was the way Martin’s tilted downwards, head rested in the crook of Jon’s neck, slotted so perfectly, as if carved out just to fit him. Jon would fancy that it was.

One could call the way they moved dancing, but to call it dancing would just be an excuse for them wanting to hold each other. Martin’s hand cupped the back of Jon’s neck, the pads of his fingers gently kissing the nape, fingers slotting between strands of hair.

“ _If we should part, my dear, dear love, you should know you’re in my heart,”_ sang the stereo.

Jon pulled back, only enough to reach up to kiss Martin. Martin’s hold on his neck tightened, and Jon felt his lips curl upwards in a smile. This kiss wasn’t like the ones they had shared before, not filled with nervous trepidation of rejection, nor morning fatigue; it was solid, and sure, and warm. The kiss deepened, Jon’s hand cupping Martin’s face, his fingers curling underneath his jaw, feeling the hint of stubble growing through. Martin brought his hand forward, fingers ghosting around his neck, his thumb resting in the divot of Jon’s clavicle. His lips pressed against Jon’s, pressure flowing in and out like the tide. Jon’s thoughts went to crashing waves, not in the cinematic sense, but in the fond memories he held of his childhood growing up by the ocean. Kissing Martin, holding Martin, being near Martin, gave him that same feeling of looking out across infinity, and finding comfort in it. The infinite possibilities that this kiss could branch off into; the thought thrilled him as much as it terrified him.

_“And though I may be getting older, know that I'm coming with you. Know that I'm hanging onto the things that you said.”_

Martin pulled away, a minute distance, but enough that Jon wanted to close it.

“Do you want – do you want me to take those off,” asked Martin, somewhat breathless, tapping his finger against the arm of Jon’s glasses. Jon just nodded, feeling very grateful for the sturdy arm that Martin had wrapped around him, or else he might’ve crumbled at that. Martin grinned, his lips flushed pink, as he removed Jon’s glasses, folding them up gently, and placing them atop of the shelf.

 _“If cosmic force is real at all, it's come between you and I_.”

Jon blinked, adjusting to the soft fuzz of the room. Martin was in clarity, though, and that’s all that mattered. He reached up again, meeting Martin’s lips with shameless force. Martin made a small noise of pleasure at the touch, humming into the kiss. Jon pushed deeper, his lips parting around Martin’s, the hint of a tongue whispering against his bottom lip. Martin’s breath stuttered slightly, before he melted against Jon, his grip slackening in idyllic bliss.

Each kiss carved a new place in Jon’s heart, fitting Martin in with each touch, and breath, and move of his lips. If Jon kissed him long enough, then maybe he could carve away his whole being, and become this moment.

“ _I want to be naked. I don't mean my body. I don't need my body. I'm floating away_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of the last chapter, the next one being more of an epilogue than anything with a wee time skip (like a month)  
> I haven't slept yet, so my usual end note ramblings aren't coming to me right now - but I hope you enjoyed!  
> Next week's chapter might be late, only because I'm moving out, and we haven't quite gotten the wifi situation sorted.  
> As always, comments and kudos make me cry (in a good way)   
> xx


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you scared?”  
> “Of course I'm not, Martin,” bit back Jon. “I’m not a child.”  
> Martin raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You look a little peaky, if you don’t mind me saying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are ...  
> I'll get all mooshy in the end notes, but for now - please enjoy the final chapter of Lessons in Caring xx  
> (also sorry for the late update, we only just got WIFI in the flat last night)

“Are you scared?”

“Of course I'm not, Martin,” bit back Jon. “I’m not a child.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You look a little peaky, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I do mind,” he huffed. “It’s just – it’s just a big saw, there’s nothing scary about that in the slightest.”

“Of course,” agreed Martin, giving Jon’s hand a small squeeze. “Just a big spinning saw going across your arm – ”

“You’re not helping.”

Martin laughed. “I’m sorry – sorry, Jon. It’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried, I already said that.”

“Huh, yeah, yeah,” nodded Martin, wearing an expression too stern to be sincere.

They were back in the hospital, waiting for one of the nurses to come through the remove Jon’s wrist cast. It felt odd being back; it wasn’t like he had been admitted long enough to build up any memories of the place, fond or not – but still, it felt wrong being back so soon. Jon wasn’t the biggest fans of hospitals, too clinical and sombre for his liking.

The healing process had been slow, but steady. Much like Georgie had said, the cut on his cheek was appearing to scar – and, much like Georgie had said, Martin did in fact like it. He had told Jon that it gave him a ‘Mysterious and rugged professor’ vibe. In Jon’s opinion, there wasn’t much mystery about falling down a flight of stairs and cutting your face open on some broken tiles; but, even so, he couldn’t argue that Martin’s analysis of the look didn’t make his heart flutter.

His body still ached, a numb echo in his chest that didn’t feel like it would ever really fade. If he stood too long, or twisted his torso too quickly, the slow drumming of pain would return.

But this was it, the last physical remnant of his accident; the removal of his cast.

The room they were in wasn’t too dissimilar to the one Jon had woken up in, a month ago; sans the incessant beeping, and intense feeling of pain. And this time, when he held Martin’s hand, it was with subconscious, easy motion. Everything felt easy with Martin.

The rings of the curtain rattled as they were pulled back, and a familiar face in blue scrubs stepped into the space. On reflex, Martin let go of his hand, tucking them between his knees instead.

“Ah,” said Nurse Oliver Banks, quickly sparing a glance at the clipboard in his hands. “Jonathon. And – ” His head turned to Martin, the name looking to be on the tip of his tongue.

“Martin,” said Martin, standing up to shake Oliver’s hand.

Oliver took it, and nodded. “Of course. I remember you from last time. I’m Nurse Oliver Banks.”

A small look of surprise flashed on Martin’s face, before he settled back into his usual friendly smile.

Oliver turned his attention back to Jon, who was sitting atop the bed, his feet just scraping the floor, as they swung anxiously. “Jonathon, how are you feeling today? You’re looking much better than last time we spoke.”

Jon huffed a small laugh. “I would hope so. Yes, I’m much better, thank you. Itchy, if anything.” He held up his cast for emphasis. “Quite glad to be finally rid of this.”

Oliver nodded understandingly. “Yes, yes – they’re not the most comfortable. I broke my leg as a child, almost broke it again running so quickly after the nurse removed it. I was just so ecstatic to have it off.”

Oliver pulled over the small metal trolley as he spoke, on it was lined a selection of silver scissors, and a what looked like a vicious looking buzz saw. The tools glinted maliciously in the fluorescent lights. Jon swallowed.

“Have you had a cast removed before?” asked Oliver, pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves. They went on with a snap. Jon shook his head. “Don’t be intimidated by the saw, honestly – it can’t actually cut you.”

“Really?” replied Jon, his tone doubting. He missed the comfort of his boyfriends’ hand.

Oliver nodded. “Although it looks like it, the blade itself doesn’t spin – it moves back and forth, creating vibrations that move your skin if it gets too close. Not to mention – the blade in itself is dull, only designed to cut through plaster or fiberglass. You’re safe, don’t worry. This is a hospital after all. We treat injuries – not create them.”

It was an attempt at humour that Jon didn’t miss, but his throat felt too tight to laugh. He knew Oliver was right; he trusted his medical knowledge, and the numerous articles he had read the night before. Even so, it was a big saw …

“This is going to noisy,” warned Oliver. “It’s just the vacuum, though.”

Oliver didn’t wait for a reply, before kicking the tool into gear. He held Jon’s hand for support, as he began to guide the tool along the seam of the blue exterior. The tool growled, as it chewed though the fiberglass shell, opening it up with ease. Jon bit down on his lip, holding onto his last breath like it was a lifeline.

Martin’s hand fell against the small of Jon’s back, a small affectionate move of silent support. Jon eased into the touch, turning his attention to the feeling of Martin’s hand. He looked away from his arm and towards Martin, who noticed Jon’s eyes on him almost immediately, and looked up at him with a warm smile. Jon let out his breath, almost a sigh, melting under Martin’s expression.

“Other side now,” came Oliver’s voice, stealing Jon’s attention back to the matter at, _ahem_ , hand. He tilted Jon’s arm, and began to work the rest of the cast off. A minute passed, and then Oliver was going in with the pair of scissors, cutting away the cotton lining.

“Have you two got any plans for the rest of the day?” asked Oliver, as he peeled the cotton away. He began to unfurl the bandaging. Jon flexed his hand as he worked, feeling movement in his arm for the first time in too long.

“Uh, I think we’re just meeting some friends,” replied Martin.

“Yes,” added Jon. “My roommate and her girlfriend just launched a new show – so it’s a small celebration. Nothing fancy, though.”

Oliver hummed, as he finished unwrapping the bandages. The air hitting Jon’s bare skin felt like slipping into an icy pool, soothing and somewhat shocking. His skin was a sticky, grey colour, and red indents were pressed into his skin where the cast had been. The skin around his wrist was wrinkled, and whiter in colour than the rest of his arm, and his mind went to how his fingers had always looked after he had been in the sea for the too long as a child. He wiggled his fingers, watching the tendons in his arms move in tandem.

“Sounds fun,” said Oliver. “Congratulations to your friends.”

“Thank you,” said Jon. “And, uh – thank you, for well - ” He held up his bare arm. “This.”

“No problem, Jon,” he said with a smile. He had a very nice face, soft and comforting – it was easy to see why he had gone into nursing. He had one of those faces that would put you at ease on sight, and the voice didn’t hurt the matter, either. “Now,” he continued, “onto the boring aftercare stuff.”

“Ah, sorry – just a moment,” fumbled Martin, as he quickly reached into his rucksack and pulled out a small notebook, and pencil. Oliver looked confused for a moment. “Just, uh – just in case we forget anything.”

“Martin,” said Jon, his tone audibly fond, “Is that necessary?”

Martin blinked. “Well, I don’t want your bloody arm to fall off because you forgot to, I don’t know – moisturise it, or something?”

“Moisturizing it is important, actually,” chimed in Oliver. “Fragrance free, though.”

“See?” said Martin, gesturing towards Oliver.

Jon laughed. “Alright, alright.”

“There isn’t all that much you need to be aware of,” began Oliver. “No strenuous sport, or activities for at least six-weeks. Nothing that would put strain on your arm, essentially – just be more mindful of it than you would be usually, otherwise you run the risk of re-breaking it.”

Beside Jon, Martin was quickly scribbling down the nurse’s words. Jon felt a small pang of fondness, and swallowed down an affectionate smile.

“Don’t shave your arm for 3-days,” said Oliver. “I don’t think you do, but just covering all bases.” He paused for thought. “Wash with soap and water, and moisturise it – just to rejuvenate your skin, it’s been through the grinder a bit. If you notice any swelling, or redness – anything that looks wrong; wait three days, and if nothing changes, contact us,” he said. “Other than that, you’re free to go.”

“Oh, well, thank you very much,” said Jon, slipping off of the bed and onto his feet. “Have a good day, Oliver.”

“You too, Jon,” said Oliver, and then, “have fun with the celebrations – not too much fun, though. I don’t want to see either of you again tonight.”

Jon gave a sarcastic laugh. “Trust me, I am quite done with hospitals.”

Oliver nodded, chuckling slightly “In that case, I’ll leave you two to get ready. Goodbye!”

When the curtain fell closed again, Martin let out a heavy sigh. Jon turned to him, with a curious expression on his face.

“Everything alright, Martin?”

Martin blinked, his head turning to Jon with a soft bafflement. “Yes, Jon. Marvellous.”

“Marvellous is quite good, I’m glad to hear,” smiled Jon, as he watched Martin turn pink before him. He slipped his coat on, with an ease he had missed.

Martin handed Jon his bag. “He was nice. Oliver, I mean.”

Jon took the proffered bag, and swung it over his shoulder. “Yes, he was.”

“Like, really nice,” said Martin, stressing each word with more gusto than required.

“No more than professionally required,” said Jon, a tinge of amusement seeping into his tone.

Martin floundered for a moment, before giving another sigh, and a minute eyeroll. “C’mon, let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”

Jon ran his tongue over his teeth, biting down momentarily to supress a laugh. “Martin, are you – are you jealous?”

Martin snapped his head towards Jon, his eyes wide, and a scoff on his lips. “I am not jealous, Jon. Why on earth would I be jealous of the attractive nurse who was flirting with you?”

Jon laughed, which only made Martin’s brow furrow deeper. Jon stepped forward, cupping Martin’s cheeks in his hands, and kissed him. A short and sweet reminder of his affection. “Martin, that was hardly flirting – even I know that. And, as you very well know, I’m not the most astute with that sort of thing.”

Martin held Jon’s wrists in his hands, looking flushed between Jon’s hands. Jon kissed him again.

“Alright, alright,” mumbled Martin against Jon’s lips. “He was nice, though.”

“Should I be jealous?” joked Jon.

Martin laughed, and shook his head. Then he wrinkled his nose. “Jon, no offense, but your arm smells really funky.”

Jon dropped his hands. “I – no it doesn’t.” Tentatively, he lifted his wrist to sniff it, wrinkling his own nose at the scent. “Well, it was in a cast for a month, it’s hardly going to smell of roses, Martin.”

Martin grinned, catching Jon’s hand in his. Instinctively, Jon squeezed it. “Let’s go, okay?”

“You made it!” cried Georgie, pressing a wet kiss against Jon’s cheek, and then a matching one against Martin’s. Martin laughed; the sound tinged with an endearing awkward quality.

“I live here,” said Jon, puzzling his brow at his roommate. “Of course I made it.”

She smacked his arm. “I’m in host mode, okay?” She turned to Martin, her gaze instantly softening. Martin had that effect on people. “Are your friends still coming?”

Martin nodded. “Yeah, Tim texted anyway saying so. He also says to thank you for the invitation – Sasha, too.”

Georgie grinned. “Course. More the merrier. Speaking of – ” She began to walk back towards the living room, turning her head to make sure the two were following. “Most folk are here – Hi, Annabelle.”

Annabelle, who Jon could stretch his mind to say he recognised, smiled at Georgie, giving her arm a congratulatory squeeze. She was dressed in an outfit that looked more fitting for the 50’s, than a small party. Though, she definitely looked like someone who would be a part of Georgie and Melanie’s horror shenanigans.

“This is my roommate, Jon,” introduced Georgie, “and his boyfriend, Martin.”

They exchanged hello’s, and handshakes, and other pleasantries, before Georgie was whisking them away to introduce them to other crew members. Jon wasn’t the best equipped for such social situations – the noise, and the small talk, and the fact that everyone was always more handsy than required always made his skin feel like it was crawling, and like his ears were filled with hot cotton wool.

As his hand met another strangers, shaking in politeness, he felt that tightness in his chest begin to crawl its way up his throat, tightening his smile. Martin seemed like a natural, though – not that Jon was surprised. Martin was so incredibly inviting, and oozed friendliness, that he moved between introductions with such an ease that Jon almost envied him.

No, not envy – admiration. Pride.

He gave Martin’s hand a squeeze. There was no need for him to be holding onto Martin in that moment; it wasn’t like he was going to lose him in his own living room. But, God, he just wanted to – and that weight in his hand took away from the weight in his chest.

“We work together,” said Martin, in response to a question Jon hadn’t heard; asked by a lanky looking man, with a mess of blonde curls dripping down his face. The shirt he was wearing was a headache, a mish-mash of colours that would have had his Year Eleven Art teacher weeping over a colour wheel.

Jon found his gaze oddly transfixed by the jarring swirls that adorned the fabric; so engrossed that he only came back to his senses after Martin said something into his ear. He blinked, and noticed that the man was now talking to someone else – a brunette woman, with a similar fashion sense. For a moment, Jon wondered if he had missed a memo regarding attire – or if Georgie had a thing for hiring people solely based on their wardrobes.

“What did you say?” asked Jon, once his mind returned.

Martin smiled, and gave Jon’s hand a small tug. “Do you want a drink?”

Jon looked over towards the dining table, that Georgie had set up to act as a small bar – it was very reminiscent of their university days; with everyone cramming their £7.99 spirits onto someone’s bedside table, and constantly knocking over the plastic cups whenever anymore moved too quickly.

Of course, now that they were adults, whose livers had consequences, the ‘bar’’ was lined with wine, and a box of IPA brew that a guest must have brought with them. Stacked alongside the bottles were cheap plastic wine glasses, that looked like they would crack between your grip if you held them a shade too tight. Jon tried not to think of the environmental repercussions as he watched the guests say about with them.

“Do you want an actual glass?” asked Jon, as Martin fiddled with one of the twee plastic glasses. “We don’t have to use those ones.”

“Oh, fancy,” laughed Martin. “Who knew dating you would come with so many perks.”

Jon scoffed. “Have to try and even out that con list somehow.”

Martin sighed heavily, as he gave Jon’s hand another tug, pulling him in closer, and wrapping his arm around his waist. Jon’s hands fell against Martin’s chest. He leant down to kiss Jon, short and sweet. “No con lists.”

Jon smiled as he pulled back, feeling warmth to his cheeks. “Alright, alright – come on.”

It was slightly quieter in the kitchen, but the lack of door offered little privacy. Martin leant against the counter, as Jon fished out two, real, wine glasses.

“So,” started Martin, a slight hesitancy to his words. Jon looked over to him, waiting for him to proceed. “I was, uh – I was thinking …”

He paused, rubbing the palm of his hands together, before twisting his fingers round each other. His bottom lip ran between his teeth. “Well, it’s just that, ah – well, now that you’ve got your cast off, and you’re pretty much healed, and all that. And – and the end of term is coming up, so I was, uh – I was thinking that maybe, uh – ”

“Martin,” smiled Jon. “What is it?”

“Do you want to go somewhere?” Martin blinked; eyes wide.

“As in not my kitchen?”

“No,” said Martin. “Well, yes – obviously, I don’t want to hang out in your kitchen for eternity. No offense, it’s a fine kitchen – ”

“It’s a crummy kitchen,” said Jon, nudging the bucket on the floor with the heel of his foot. For the occasion, Melanie had slapped a bow onto it – “It’s a statement piece,” she had said; as if they could play off a leak as an artistic decision.

“It’s not the best,” conceded Martin, with a small breathy laugh. “But, uh – I meant more like, not London?”

“A trip?”

Martin nodded. “We could, maybe, well – the Lake District is always nice this time of year, or – or maybe the highlands. Always a bit colder, but less busy than down south, anyway. But, uh – obviously, we don’t have to. I don’t know if it’s too, uh – early, I guess, for that kind of thing. I mean, just a weekend, or something – ”

Jon cut Martin off with a kiss, pressing the two glasses against Martin’s chest as he leant in. Martin’s words died on his lips, as his hands reached up to take the glasses, slipping them onto the counter beside him. With his hands free, Jon cupped Martin’s face, and Martin’s arms drove themselves around Jon’s torso, pulling him in tight.

“You really want to be trapped in some cottage in the middle of Scotland with me?” said Jon as he broke the kiss.

Martin grinned. “Kind of the point.”

“You never fail to amaze me,” said Jon, his tone teasing – yet his words sincere. He gave Martin’s hand a squeeze. “I’d love that, though. A perfect way to end the term, I think.”

Martin’s grin broke wider. “Great, that’s great. Really – ”

“Great?”

“Great,” echoed Martin. His grin fell into something softer, and he looked at Jon through crinkled eyes. “God, I really love you, you know?”

It wasn’t the first time he had said that, but the repeat didn’t make the words less sweet, didn’t dilute the warm honey that bloomed in Jon’s veins when Martin sounded those words. The first time had been taken one morning, a Saturday; no work, or alarms for either of them – just peace, and comfort in the fact that they could lie there as long as they wanted to.

Jon had brought through a cup of tea for the both of them – not as good as Martins, and neither pretended otherwise. Jon had placed the cup on the table beside Martin. And Martin, through half lidded eyes, and a voice broken with sleep, had said that he loved Jon, as easy as if he were breathing.

Through wide eyes, and stammers, Jon had said that he loved him back.

The smile Martin had worn at those words rivalled all of his others, and Jon relished in the feeling of seeing that expression bloom.

“I love you too, Martin,” said Jon. And there it was – that smile.

He vowed to never lose it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really can't quite believe this is over - I started this project halfway through lockdown, and I finished it in my new flat; and it just feels somewhat poetic in a weird way haha  
> I really can't believe the response this piece has gotten; every comment, kudos, and hit just made my day - seeing people enjoy a story that you've absolutely loved writing has been a really wonderful experience, so thank you :D  
> I will miss these versions of Jon and Martin, but I have new pieces that I've been working on! So, if you want to keep up with me and my other writing projects follow me on tumbr, I guess?? Can you follow on ao3??? ahh nevermind haha i'm at Buccata though!
> 
> Anyway! Thank you all so, so much for reading - I love you all, and I will be posting forehead kisses to everyone who has read this (or just very friendly waves)
> 
> Edit: Gonna use this fic to advertise my new one, a funky lil PI fic wih Jon as a Private Eye and he and Martin fall in love whilst suplexing Elias - it's fun, and mysterious and I have spent a LOT of time planning it :D [Read here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26155435/chapters/63637933)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! Comments and kudos are incredibly appreciated, and if you want to message me on tumblr im at mothjons (previously Buccata)!! xx


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